Artemis

'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 shipboard 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 was 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 mesmerising, seeing at such close quarters the cutwater 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 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. The 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 hypnotised 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 sayings

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 sea-bed 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 sea-water in the daytime with the sun's rays reaching down in moving shafts of light, and even then he had never seen the bottom.

'Night-time, 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.'

'Naah - sharks'll be at their bones quicker'n silver.'

'What flam, Jeb! Where's yer sharks in th' north?'

'There's other things, mate, what likes ter eat a sailor's bones. Things down there a-waitin' their chance.'

'What things?' Kydd asked, apprehensive of the reply.

'Monsters, mate! Huge 'n' bloody monsters.'

This provoked a restless stirring, but the voice was not contradicted. The cheerful slapping of ropes against the mast and the unseen plash of the wake shifted imperceptibly to a manic fretfulness. A new voice started from further away: 'He's right there, has ter be said. Some as say there ain't no monsters, but yer've got ter agree, a sea this big c'n hide more'n a whole tribe of 'em.'

'Sure there's monsters,' an older voice cut in. 'An' I seen one. Two summers ago only. We wuz at anchor off Funchal — 'n' that ain't so far from here — had fishin' lines over the side, hopin' fer albacore, so 'twas stout gear we had out.' He cleared his throat and continued, 'Nearly sundown, 'n' we was about to haul th' lines in when comes such a tug on one it nearly took me with it inter the 'oggin. Me frien' who was alongside me saw the line smokin' out like it had a stone weight on it plungin' down, an' he takes a turn on a cleat, slows it down a bit. Then th' line slackens an' he hauls in.'

There was total quiet.

'Sudden-like, there's a shout. I goes ter the side an', so help me God, I sees there somethin' I don' never want ter see again!'

Kydd held his breath.

'Red eyes 'n' fangs workin' away, there's this great long dark-green serpent. An' I mean long! Me frien' worked it aft by tyin' off on the pins one be one, an' I'm here ter tell yez, mates, it stretched out from abreast the foremast all the way aft ter the quarterdeck. Squirmin' and thrashin', right knaggy it was, thumpin' the side until officer o' the deck told us to cut him loose ter save the ship.'

A younger voice interjected, 'Yer c'n be sure that's nowt but a tiddler, Lofty. Bigger ones down there, yer just don't know.'

'An' they ain't the worst of 'em - it's them what the Norskeys call the Kraken, they're the worst.' 'What Y they?'

'It's yer giant octopus, mate, big as yer like, loomin' up outa the sea at night, eyes as big as a church clock a-starin' up at yer — an' that's when you knows it's all up, 'cos it feeds on sailors what it sweeps up orf of the deck with its slimy great arms forty fathom long, with these 'ere suckers all over 'em.'

Apprehension spread over Kydd. As they spoke there might be one directly in their path, lying in silent anticipation of its meal, just at this moment noiselessly rising up from the depths. He shivered, and hunkered down in the blackness as low as he could. Renzi was out of reach, now at his trick on the wheel, but in the forenoon they would certainly talk together.

The prevailing westerlies died and from the other direction the north-east trade winds began: pleasantly warm, vigorous and exhilarating, the best possible impetus for their southward voyaging. The sea turned ultramarine under the azure sky, and with hurrying white horses below and towering cumulus rising above, their sea world was a contrasting study in blue and white.

On the sun-dappled main deck Petit paused in his seaming. 'Yez knows what this means.'

Kydd looked up and waited.

'These are the trade winds, 'n' that means we now got Africa ter larb'd.'

It was a thought to conjure with. The fabled dark continent, its interior unknown to mankind. Jungle and swamp, the whole mystery lying just over there from where the winds were blowing. Kydd was seized with a yearning to glimpse it, just once.

The weather grew from warm to hot; pitch between the deck planking became sticky to the touch where the sun beat down on it, and Kydd had to cover his torso with an open shirt; his bare feet had long ago become strong and toughened.

Below decks it was too hot to sleep. Kydd and Renzi sat on the fo'c'sle, off watch, Renzi with his clay pipe drawing contentedly and Kydd staring up dreamily. The stars were out, and of such brilliance they appeared low enough to touch. Along the eastern horizon, however, was a dark line. Curious, they watched it take shape. As the hours wore on it extended gradually on both sides and fattened to a bank of darkness. Lightning played within it, a continuous flickering that illuminated tiny details of the cloud mass in tawny gold.

The heat of the day was still with them, the air breathy, heavy. They looked towards the bank idly, fascinated by the primeval sight. It was now moving towards them from the beam. As it drew nearer the distant flashes of lightning became more separated and distinct, and after a long interval an answering sullen rumbling of thunder could be heard floating towards them over the water.

'All the hands! All hands on deck — haaaaands to shorten sail!'

There was no apparent change in the immediate weather; the wind was the same streaming easterly, but for the first time Kydd could detect a scent, a heavy humid rankness of rotten vegetation and stagnant pools — the heady fragrance of Africa.

They took in courses, then topsails. Powlett, it seemed, would not be satisfied until the yards were at the cap and all they showed were staysails fore-and-aft. Their speed fell off, and the roll of the ship changed in character: the Atlantic swell passed them by to leave the ship wallowing in long jerky movements, an unsettling sensation for a fast frigate.

Drawing closer, the dense cloud bank increased in height and width, its dark pall gradually snuffing out the stars until it loomed high over them. Men did not return below, they lined the side and watched. The lightning became more spectacular, the thunder a spiteful crack and pealing roar. Then came a darkness more intense than ever.

Kydd felt something elemental stealing over him; the towers of blackness glowered moody and threatening, fat with menace. The wind died; in the calm the flashing and banging of the lightning filled the senses. There was a breathless pause as the last stars flickered out overhead. In the ominous calm it seemed that the fluky winds were in dispute for the right to turn on their prey.

A gust, then others. The wind picked up in violent, shifting squalls, sending Kydd staggering. The wall of blackness raced across towards them - and they were hit. In an instant it seemed as if the heavens were afire. The lightning coalesced into one blinding, ear-splitting blast of thunder, which ripped the air apart. The squalls tore at Kydd's grip in a nightmare buffeting and all he could do was stand rigid, stupefied. The ship reared and shied like a frightened horse, deafening volleys of thunder entering the fabric of the vessel, transmitting through to his feet. Worse by far than any broadside, the sound smashed at his senses. He fumbled for half-remembered prayers. They josded in his mind but focus was impossible under the assault.

And the rain came down. Walls of warm, gusting tropical rain in quantities so huge that it forced Kydd down as though he were caught in a waterfall. Breathing was almost impossible, and he lowered his head to avoid the worst of the water tumbling down on him. Hair streaming, clothes plastered to his body, his mind went numb. It went on and on, the ship trembling and directionless, heading for who knew what inevitable destruction.

Kydd felt a grip on his arm. Through blurred vision he saw Renzi and, to his astonishment, realised that the man was laughing. He felt anger welling up, an indignant resentment that Renzi was enjoying the experience, no doubt adding it to his store of philosophic curiosities. He tore away his arm and resumed his posture of endurance, but it was no good, the spell had been broken. Reluctantly he had to concede that if modern learning could proof a man against nature's bluster then perhaps it had some merit.

He looked up again and grinned slowly. The heavens rattled and roared but in some way the storm's sting had been drawn, and within the hour its fury had moderated. The rain petered out, and the blackness began to dissolve, the lightning spending itself in vicious flickers that whip-cracked right across the sky.

The last of the darkness was passing overhead. Rueful, soaked figures fumbled about on the streaming decks.

'Haaaands to make sail!'

Kydd moved to the larboard fore-shrouds and swung himself up for the climb into the foretop. But before he had risen a dozen feet there was a single dazzling flash and a clap of thunder so tremendous that it shook the ship with its concussion.

Deafened, he clung to the shrouds, shaking his head to clear it. As his eyes tried to adjust to the dark and his ears stopped buzzing he became aware of a commotion on the opposite side. The shrouds there gave off wisps of steam along their length. Still muzzy from the shock of the discharge Kydd couldn't understand. Then he realised - there had been one last spiteful play of lightning, and it had struck the foremast but by chance had passed down the opposite shrouds, to the iron of an anchor and into the sea.

Trembling at the thought of his near escape from an unspeakably violent death Kydd dropped to the deck and went over to see the results of the strike. The lines of rigging were randomly patterned with steaming black. Above, still clinging to the shrouds, were the silhouettes of three men, ominously still. Others climbed up beside them. There were shouts, high-strung and chilling — Kydd knew with a sinking inevitability what they had found.

By the light of a lanthorn they crowded round the stiff, discoloured corpses as they were lowered down. Even the eyeballs had burst in the white heat, and the bodies had swollen to grotesque proportions. There was the sound of retching before canvas was brought to cover the indecency.

Dying rumbles followed the black mass as it fell away to leeward as rapidly as it had approached, leaving the stars to resume their calm display.

'No, me boy, we sank Africa astern three, five days ago,' said Merrydew. For him the heat was a trial, his corpulent figure sweaty, his movements slow and reluctant.

Kydd found it confusing. From his barely remembered geography lessons he recalled that Africa was a fat pear shape running north and south. If they were to round its southern tip to reach India, why were they heading away?

'Because we're makin' a westing, that's why,' the boatswain explained. To Kydd it seemed as nonsensical as ever. Patiently, Merrydew carried on. 'These latitudes, why, much further the wind gives up altogether, none to be had. Bad - we calls it the doldrums. We wants to avoid 'em, so we makes a slant over to t' other side o' the ocean afore it gets too bad. We then crosses the Line into the south half o' the world and slants back with an opposite wind — see?'

It was wearisome, life in the tropics aboard a frigate. The hardest thing was the intense humidity below decks, only partly relieved by wind scoops at the hatches. The next most difficult thing to bear was the food. Their molasses ran out, and the morning burgoo tasted of what it was, oatmeal months in the sack, malodorous and lacking flavour but for the insect droppings. Quashee did his best with the little store of conveniences, occasionally reaching heights of excellence. In the flying-fish belt he produced a legendary gazy pie, the little fish heads peeping up through the crust all around, and flavoured with hoarded garnishings.

The wind had been light and erratic for days now, a trying time when the hauling on lines had to be done under a near vertical sun beating down, which blasted back at them from the water.

One morning the wind died away entirely, the sea disturbed only by a long but slight swell. The heat was close to intolerable, despite the awnings, and the boatswain's red face swelled. The sails hung in folds from the yards, barely moving; the ship, with a sluggish roll, was without any kind of steerage way. Artemis drifted aimlessly in the mirror-like sea.

Nobody spoke, it cost too much effort. At three in the afternoon, a flaw of wind darkened the water. On the quarterdeck Powlett in his thin, threadbare shirt looked meaningfully at the figure of the Master.

It was what they had been waiting for. A wind - but from the south-east! They had already reached the winds of the south. The change in spirits aboard Artemis was remarkable. Although they had to wait until evening for the winds to reach a point where the sails began to fill and the rudder to bite, all talk was on the future.

'Got our slant - gonna be shakin' hands with them Kidderpore fillies in a month.'

'Hassiiming that we get in afore the monsoon shifts about.'

Happy chatter swelled, but Petit remained serious as he cradled his pot.

'Anythin' amiss, Elias, mate?' Stirk asked. His powerful body was, as usual, naked from the waist up, an expanse of damp mahogany muscle.

'Yes, mate,' Petit replied quietly.

The talking stopped and the group on the fo'c'sle looked over at him in the lanthorn light. 'How so, cuffin?' Stirk said softly.

'You knows, Toby, youse a man-o'-war's man an' unnerstands.' Stirk didn't reply, but a frown lined his face. 'Recollect, shipmate, we're in th' south now, and we ain't never had a visit from 'Is Majesty.'

Stirk's face eased fractionally. 'But o' course,' he murmured. When Kydd looked again he had disappeared.

It looked as though the wind would hold. The morning breeze had stayed and strengthened just a little, and with the lightest possible canvas spread abroad they were making progress. Powlett stood with his arms folded, squinting up at the undulating sails as they played with the breeze. The Master was next to him, willing on the winds.

Kydd was tricing up the after end of the quarterdeck awning and could hear the pleased conversations — whatever was in those secret orders, he guessed they must include every stricture for speed.

The boatswain came aft, and touched his hat. 'Sir,' he said, 'with m' duty, just found this paper near the quarterdeck nettings, thought you'd want t' sight it.'

Taking the paper, Powlett's face hardened. The ploy was often used to allow crew members to convey discontents anonymously aft. He read on, his expression grim. 'King Neptune? It's a nonsense, Mr Merrydew!' he roared. The boatswain stiffened. 'And a damnable impertinence!' Powlett snapped, and ripped the paper in two. The pieces fluttered to the deck. The boatswain's chin jutted belligerently: the customs of the Sea Service were not so easily to be put aside.

Turning to the Master, Powlett said loudly, 'Mr Prewse, pray tell us our position.'

Rubbing his chin, Prewse looked up at the sky. 'Well, sir, near enough . ..'

'Our position, sir!'

'Our longitude was thirty-two degree an' seventeen minutes west, noon yesterday.' 'Latitude, Mr Prewse?'

'An' nought degrees an' fifty-four minutes — north!'

Powlett whirled back on the boatswain. 'There you are. North. Do you propose, sir, that we enter King Neptune's realm early? That is to say, precipitate, like a damn-fool set o' canting lubbers who can't work a sea position to save their skins?'

The boatswain's face eased into a smile. 'Aye, sir, we'd best not set His Majesty at defiance!'

Kydd could hardly wait to relay the conversation to the mess, who were taking their victuals in the shade of the main deck.

'Yair, well, it's no small thing, mate, to enter hupon his realm,' Petit said portentously.

Cundall leered evilly at Kydd. 'An' it's bad days fer them 'oo 'aven't been welcomed inta it yet.'

Realising that he would be made sport of whatever he did, Kydd just smiled.

Doud's grin was devilish. His gaze slid to Quashee, who winked at him, and he affected a kind, considerate manner. 'Could be the best fer any who don't know the rules to steer a mite clear of the ceremonies,' he told Kydd. "Is Majesty don't stand fer no contempt ter his person.'

Kydd resolved to be conveniently absent when King Neptune came aboard.

'Should be hearin' from 'im soon!' Stirk said, his black eyes glittering at Kydd. "Oo is it that ain't been admitted to 'is kingdom, then?'

That night, at seven bells of the first watch, Artemis was boarded by a messenger from King Neptune himself. Or, at least, a man looking just like a ragged sea sprite and dripping sea-water suddenly appeared before the starboard fo'c'sle lookout from outboard, clambering rudely over the fife rail.

'What ship?' was demanded, and when the hapless lookout stuttered an answer, he was pelted with a rotten fish. 'Down, yer scurvy shab, make yer respects to one o' King Neptune's crew!'

The officer-of-the-watch was summoned; it was Rowley. He doffed his hat, and courteously enquired of the stranger.

"Is Majesty requires of yer a list of all 'oo have not yet bin truly welcomed inter his realm,' the officer was told in lordly tones. By this time curious sightseers had gathered around, including some from the wardroom.

'Of course,' said Rowley, 'but I beg you, be so good as to take a glass while you wait. A rummer of brandy will, I believe, keep the damp from your bones.'

Well satisfied but grumbling mightily, the sprite later eased himself over the rail and disappeared.

On the following forenoon, the masthead lookout hailed the deck. 'Sail, ho! Strange sail right ahead, standin' fer the ship.' 'What ship?'

'More like a boat wi' a lugsail.'

Telescopes flashed on the quarterdeck. The boatswain turned importantly to the Captain and said, 'It's very like King Neptune, sir!'

'Very well,' said Powlett. 'Make ready his carriage — heave to and prepare a welcome, Mr Parry.'

The boat was secured to the forechains and King Neptune was swayed aboard in a chair suspended from a whip rove at the fore-yardarm, followed shortly by his wife. His courtiers scrambled up the side and quickly took possession of the foredeck. They were a motley crew, rigged in a wild assortment of regalia: coloured rags and old sailcloth decorated with seaweed, seagull feathers and wigs of oakum. The King's conveyance turned out to be a twelve-pounder gun carriage, with a suitably comfortable leatherbound chair lashed to it. Neptune assumed his rightful position, acknowledging the murmurs of awe in regal fashion with his trident.

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 honour 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 ochre 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 sea-shells, 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 sea-water 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 hard-tack,' 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 sea-water 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 judgements, but suddenly he stood up and nourished 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, humourless 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. Party 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 sea-water 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 deeply, and noticed Renzi, also soaked and dishevelled. 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 south-easterly 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 south-easterlies 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, marvelling 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 anticlimax. Sighting Madagascar, a faint blue-grey 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 south-westerly to a light, breathy breeze — in their teeth from the north-east.

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 tantalising 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 mould 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 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. Somewhere 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-coloured 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 materialise: 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 ocean-going 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-coloured 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 colours 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 quarterdeck 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 labouring 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 re-reeving of lines, which were jobs requiring real seamanship skills, and left the rest of Artemis's crew to the storing. It seemed that rumour 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 grey-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 recognisable humanity he could relate to; they simply plodded on in regular, economic movements.

Renzi went below to find some rope yarn, and Kydd lost interest in the stream of brown figures and pressed on with his work.

'If yer'd help us, friend, oi'd be roight grateful!' a hoarse voice said. Kydd looked up sharply, but there was no one, only the stream of lascars under the watchful eye of their serang. He looked around warily. If that was a joke, it was a pitiful attempt. He shrugged and continued at his marline spike and splice. 'Loike, we'em desperate.' The hoarse voice was close, very close. Kydd stood up angrily.

The boatswain arrived from below, puffing like a grampus. He stood at the rail, gathering his breath, and watched the line of native labourers. 'That slivey dog,' he said to Kydd. 'No, t'other one - mark his motions. Lazy fellow thinks to take it easy, an' he so well fed.'

The lascar indicated was indeed better nourished than the others. Instead of the sculpted angular ridges of hardness, there was a definite rounding of flesh; possibly the man was of superior caste.

'Hey, you, the serang? the boatswain shouted across at the overseer. 'Jowla, jowla — him!' he ordered, pointing at the offending individual.

The serang looked at him doubtfully, and raising his rattan gently rapped the man over his naked shoulders.

'Good Christ!' the boatswain said in astonishment. 'That wouldn't wake a sleepin' dog.' He snorted in disgust and stumped off below again.

Curiously Kydd watched the lascar trudge to the barge, lift a bale of dry goods awkwardly to his shoulders and turn to trace his steps over the gangplank and back aboard. As the man came over the bulwark he saw Kydd, and stumbled on a ring-bolt. The bale came down, bouncing along the deck, fetching up against the hatch coaming. Their eyes met - and Kydd saw real fear.

Kydd got to his feet. 'You savvy - no one hurtee you, this ship,' he said loudly. The man looked at him, then seized the bale and dragged it over.

'Thank Chroist!' the lascar said. 'Oi'm bleedin' well at t'end of me senses.'

Snatching up a rope's end, Kydd slashed him over the shoulders. 'Wha—' the lascar cried piteously.

'Shut up 'n' move!' Kydd hissed. Driving the man down the fore-companion to the gundeck, he pushed him past the canvas screening that concealed the sick quarters in the bow — he knew the three sick had been landed and the space was clear.

He spun the man round savagely. 'I've heard o' men doin' things t' run, but this is the first I heard someone wantin' so bad to get 'emselves aboard a King's ship!'

Crumpling to his knees, the man's voice caught in a sob. 'S' help me, frien', oi don' know how t' thank ye!' His brimming eyes looked up at Kydd. Taking a gulp, he continued, 'Fort William - 'tis a hell-hole loike yer worst dreams. Oi joined t' foller the colours an' a shillin' a day, not sweat in this black stink-pit.'

His face worked in a sudden paroxysm. 'This now's the cool o' the seasons — while yer wait fer the monsoon t' break, whoi, it's hotter 'n a griddle in hell — an' full uniform on parade or Sar'n't Askins'll 'ave yer!' His head dropped, and he stared hopelessly at the deck.

Kydd thought quickly. 'We sails soon, need t' get ye out o' sight.' His eyes strayed over the man's dark skin. How would it be possible to conceal such a colour? 'No idea where we're bound, but y' can get ashore easy enough — we got no pressed men aboard.'

The man caught Kydd's look. 'Ah, me dark skin. Walnut juice.'

Kydd smiled. 'Wait here.'

'Look, Oi know this looks bad, but ye've got t' unnerstan' what it's loike—'

Clapping him on the arm, Kydd stepped outside. He cannoned into a lascar waiting there, who had obviously followed them down. He gestured at the fore ladder. 'Up! You gettee up there!'

"Eard what yer said ter Ralf,' began the lascar.

Kydd groaned. 'Not you as well!' He should have known by the pale eyes, incongruous in the dark brown face.

'Well, yeah, but only the pair o' us, mate - Ralf Bunce and me, Scrufty Weems,' the man said.

'Get in there with y' chuckle-headed frien',' Kydd told him, and shoved him forward.

* * *

To his credit, Renzi only hesitated a moment when Kydd told him. Aiding a deserter was a Botany Bay offence in England; here it might be worse. There was no way the soldiers could mix in with the two hundred odd of the ship's company, for every face was familiar after the long voyage. They would have to be found a hidey-hole until they made port. 'The orlop,' Renzi suggested.

'No - mate o' the hold checks every forenoon, bound t' find anything askew.' Kydd remembered his hiding place from King Neptune's bears. 'The forepeak?'

'In this heat? Have mercy, Tom!'

However, even for this, the soldiers proved pathetically grateful and dropped down the tiny hatch into the malodorous darkness without a word.

Storing complete, the ship's company looked forward to liberty ashore, but instead they were set to scraping and scrubbing, painting and prettying in a senseless round of work that sorely tried their patience. Tales of shoreside in India grew in the telling, but Parry gave not an inch. The ship was to gleam and that was that.

Kydd and Renzi knew it was impossible to keep their secret from their shipmates. The others found it amusing that deserters from the Army thought they could find sanctuary in a man-o'-war, but in the generous way of sailors, they made their guests welcome.

Immured in the forepeak during the day, they could creep up to the fo'c'sle under cover of dark and join the sailors in a grog or two. They talked about the boredom and heat, the dust and disease of a cantonment on the plains of India. They told also of their struggle to the coast and their final bribing of the serang — and his confusion when told to beat a white man.

The sailors heard of the other side of life in India, the bazaars and what could be bought there, the heartless cruelty of the suttee funeral pyre and the deadly thuggees. Their desire for shore leave diminished.

Bunce heard Kydd recall his experience on their first morning at anchor. Sent down as part of the duty watch to clear the hawse, he had looked over the side of the beakhead forward and seen an untidy bundle wrapped around the anchor cable. He had slid down to clear it away, but closer to, it took form — a grossly misshapen corpse bleached a chalky white, barely recognisable as a young woman. It belched pungent death smells when he tried to pry it away, the sickly gases catching Kydd in the back of the throat, and there were ragged holes in the face where the kites had been tearing at it. When he prodded with a boat hook parts of it detached, floating away in the muddy river. Every day there were always one or two to clear like it.

Bunce had just nodded. 'When y' dies in India, proper drill is t' burn th' body on a pile o' wood. But there's some uz are so dirt poor, they has t' wait until dark an' then they heaves their loved 'un in th' river.'

The seamen, no stranger themselves to hardships, shuddered and vowed to see their guests safely ashore in some haven far away rather than return them to such horrors.

Two days later when the Captain returned he immediately disappeared below with Fairfax. Within the hour boatswain's mates were piping at the hatchways.

'Clear lower deck — all the hands! Haaaands t' lay aft!'

The rush to hear the news caused pandemonium, but

Powlett's appearance on deck brought an immediate expectant hush. He turned meaningfully to the sergeant in charge of marines. 'Sergeant!' 'Sah!’

'A sentry at the boats, another on the fo'c'sle! No one to leave or board the ship without my express permission.' 'Sah!'

Unbelieving looks and an exasperated grumbling spread over the assembly.

'Silence!' Powlett roared. The muttering died down. He stood near the deserted wheel with a forbidding expression. 'I am now able to tell you of our mission and why we have been at such pains with our ship.'

He paused and let his words sink into the silence. 'Artemis has been honoured to be chosen as the vessel to convey a special envoy from His Majesty King George to the Emperor of China in Peking.'

Chapter 7

That evening Lord Elmhurst and his retinue arrived, plunging the man-o'-war into a state of confusion. Eighteen souls was more than it seemed possible to cram into the spaces aft. All officers lost their cabins, but even so, with Lady Elmhurst, her daughter and maids to find privacy for, it was a near insurmountable task.

Fairfax hurried about late into the night, pursued by the shrill, demanding voice of Lady Elmhurst. The seamen retired to the forward end of the ship and let the upheaval spend itself — there would be no interference in their way of life, although in deference to the quality aboard, they would have to don shirts and for the time being forswear curses.

The frigate would sail in the morning at first light, ready or not, for there was no time to lose. There would be no touching at land en route, their first port of call would be Canton in South China, the only touching point allowed for vessels trading with China. It hardly seemed credible — a voyage to China! There was no more distant or exotic land; there were few aboard who had ever been as far east as this.