Artemis

At dawn the anchor was won from the sticky mud. What followed was a particularly difficult and perilous piece of seamanship. The problem was the rapid current. The Hooghly was wide enough, but with so many other vessels at anchor it was necessary to get control on the ship as fast as possible after she was freed of the ground. But she had a leeward tide - the northerly monsoon wind was in the same direction that the current was drifting the ship. This meant that although they were moving smartly relative to the river bottom, they were not actually moving through the water. The rudder, therefore, could not bite and the ship had no steerage way — she would drift away out of control in the crowded fairway.

The solution was not obvious and Powlett's seamanship caused dismay to some but a growing respect from others. With topgallants and courses hanging in the brails, the frigate set topsails, jib and driver, with the main topsail backed. Trimmed this way Artemis drifted broadside to the current, apparently helpless. But at every obstruction, an anchored vessel or a creeping line of barges, either the fore-topmast staysail forward would be hoisted or the driver aft would be hauled out. This would send Artemis slowly across the breadth of the river and the hazard would be cleared. For those spectators on deck it was a tense time, but where the estuary widened as it met the sea, the current slowed and it was then possible to cast to the right tack and shape their course, at last outward bound.

Passing the Sandheads and with the mangroves and lush jungle slipping away astern, the deck began to crowd with strangers and parasols, chattering and promenading, an amazing thing in a warship. Once again the harried Fairfax made the rounds, and the sightseers were given to understand that their territory would be aft, around the wheel and the neat expanse of the quarterdeck abaft.

The tall figure of the dour and abstemious Lord Elmhurst was easy to spot, pacing slowly in conversation with Powlett, obstinately in full breeches and frock coat in defiance of sea conventions. Lady Elmhurst, a somewhat mannish figure with a fan constantly at work, always seemed to be the centre of attention, a formidable woman who looked quite as capable as her husband.

Once in the open sea, Artemis hove to, drifting quietly, as she waited for the stately East Indiaman that would accompany them with the rest of the envoy's entourage.

The Walmer Castle emerged from the Hooghly and stiffly acknowledged their presence as she fell in astern. The two vessels foamed ahead.

At the end of the afternoon watch Kydd went to go below, but Renzi caught his sleeve. 'You will scarcely credit what I have been able to borrow.'

Kydd had not seen him the whole afternoon, but guessed where he had been. 'What have you got then, shipmate?'

'A treatment of the metaphysick of China in four volumes,' he said triumphantly. It had cost him dear, an hour of sympathetic weaselling of a crabbed old savant, but it was a thousand times worth it. 'There are learned men and counsellors in the entourage, sadly overlooked.' He sighed happily. 'Now I shall know the truth of the soul-stealers of the Kao Hsuang and the greatness of the saindy Confucius.'

Kydd couldn't help smiling. He had never seen Renzi so animated, and was happy for him. No doubt in the fullness of time, there would be a watch on deck in the tropical dusk and he would hear Renzi exploring these philosophies. He would use Kydd as a foil to worry happily over some arcane point, and then with dawning comprehension Kydd would see it slowly unfold into an important point and then a great truth, and they would both end up deeply satisfied. They clattered down the fore hatchway for their evening meal, pleased to be away from the deck with its high-born passengers and awkward atmosphere.

'Hey, Wong! How d'ye say in Chinee, "Come under m'lee, me lovely, an' I'll steer ye fer a safe port"?'

'Wong, mate, is there a reg'lar-built tavern, be chance, in Peking?'

'Tell us — do yer Chinee fillies like it, you know—'

Wong sat rigid, a dogged frown on his glistening face. Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the table and shouted hoarsely, ^lDa choh, lei kau tik!’ The mess table subsided.

'Woulda thought he'd be happier, the sad dog,' Doud said, in puzzlement. 'Goin' to visit his folks, like.'

Wong rose, knocking over the other seamen of the mess on his way back on deck. 'Heathen prick!' Cundall snorted.

Kydd saw that Wong had more than paying a call on his family on his mind: normally impervious to lower-deck banter, he was now touchy and morose. 'We got other things t' consider right now, mates,' Kydd said seriously. They looked at him. 'Yon lobsterback friends o' ours,' he said. In the tropics the men could not survive for long in the stifling heat of the forepeak, and strangers aboard would be spotted as soon as they set foot on deck.

'He'll 'ave ter set 'em ashore, first port o' call, o' course,' Cundall said, dismissively.

'Yeah — which is China, ain't it?' Doud retorted. 'Nah, he strings 'em up as Army deserters, o' course.'

'What? Wi' women aboard ter see? Don't give me that. He'll 'ave t' put 'em in bilboes an' send 'em back fust ship he sees,' said Petit.

'Steerage 'as all the women in, anyways — d'ye like ter 'ave them trippin' over the condemned men every time they goes topside?'

'Condemned?'

'Yair — in course, they gets topped soon as they gets sent back ter the barracks.'

Kydd leaned forward. 'Not if Black Jack don't know. Look, we finds 'em in the forepeak. They're stowaways, see, wants to ship in Artemis 'cos they've heard we're famous, an' wants a piece o' the prize money.'

'What prize money?' grunted Cundall.

'We rigs 'em in sailor's gear, teaches 'em the lingo and I'll wager Black Jack'll snap 'em up.'

Doud laughed. 'Yeah, he could at that — we landed sick more'n a brace at Calcutta.'

Petit looked doubtful. 'Aye, but y'knows that a sojer is always a sojer. How, then, are yer goin' ter make sailors outa them?'

The breeze freshened on the open ocean, and the blue sea with its hurrying white horses seemed to sense the urgency of the mission. The frigate's movements became more lively, a barrelling roll in the following wind and sea, and the deck gradually cleared of passengers, returning to its usual seamanlike expanse.

Revelling in the crispness of the air after the heavy humidity Kydd went forward. They loped along under easy sail down the long swells of the ocean, the Indiaman trying its best two miles astern. Kydd went to the ornate voluted beakhead and leaned on the rail. Below him the bow-wave foamed and roared, a broad swash of white spreading out each side from the stem. The figurehead, the chaste white figure of Artemis, thrust out a hunting bow as if to urge the rest of the ship to follow, a splendid icon for a prime predator of the seas.

The sea was much closer than in his previous ship, the big three-decker, and the sensation of speed was thrilling. Everything about the frigate suggested speed - her sails were perfectly cut to the yards and sheeted in so taut they hardly bellied. Her clean lines resulted in a fine-drawn wake and the jib and fore staysails flying down to the bowsprit-seemed to arrow the ship forward. Reluctantly Kydd made his way back: this was his favourite place.

He stepped behind the canvas screen of the sick-bay and groaned at the sight of the two soldiers. 'Now y' please to pay attention.' They looked eagerly up at him from their cross-legged position. 'Y' didn't do so well on th' last sea word I gave ye — here's a new one, see if y' can do a bit better. Show th' Captain how you know y' ropes.'

Their guileless expressions made Kydd sigh, but he persevered. 'Th' word "start", we uses it with care, f'r it has more'n one meaning. If we use it about a cask o' water, this means t' empty it, see, but if we talks about our anchor, then o' course it means to move it a piece. An' to start bread has the meaning f'r us to turn it out of its bags and casks an' stow it together in bulk — but when we talks about t' start a butt-end of a plank, why, that's serious, it means that the seas have sprung it an' we're takin' in water fast.' Kydd tried to ignore their glassy stares. 'On deck, if we starts the tack or sheet, it means t' loosen it, like "raise tacks an' sheets" when we goes about. An' the carpenter, when he wants t' move a contrary bolt, he starts it with a starting bolt.'

Scrufty Weems muttered, 'If this is yer "start" then God 'elp us at the "finish"!'

'An' if you're slack in y'r ways on deck, you c'n be sure there's a bo'sun's mate'll start ye with his rope's end, sure enough.'

Kydd knew they had to get the two soldiers before the Captain very shortly, for any real stowaways would have shown themselves as soon as the ship reached the open sea. 'Now, c'n ye tell me, what are the sea watches in order, startin' with the middle watch?'

With the northerly monsoon driving boisterously at them from astern, and the positive effect of the clockwise ocean vortex of the Bay of Bengal, they made excellent time south, aiming for the Malacca strait, the narrowing passage between Malaya and Sumatra.

'Down, y' scurvy dogs!' Kydd thrust the two soldiers at the feet of Captain Powlett, who had just begun his morning pace of the quarterdeck.

'What the devil?' Bunce and Weems had on old sailors' gear, but their walnut juice disguise had faded to a scrofulous blotchy streaking.

'Stowaways! Found 'em in the forepeak, sir.'

Powlett stared. The men got to their feet, staggered slightly at a playful heave of the deck, but touched their foreheads smartly enough.

'Aye, sir, we'em from the old Mary Jane brig, 'n' we want t' be part of the crew o' the famous Artemis?

Powlett glowered. 'So you thought to desert your shipmates and join the King's Service when it suited you.'

'Whoy, no, sir!' Bunce replied. 'The boat is in, er, ball'st, waitin' this two month fer a cargo, an' we're rare flummoxed as t' how to get out ter sea agen.'

'What rate are you?'

'Sir?'

Kydd said quickly, 'Claims they're able seamen, sir.'

'Oh, yez, that's what we are, then,' said Bunce.

'Then be so kind as to climb the larb'd mizzen shrouds and touch the cro'jick tye block,' said Powlett lazily.

Bunce caught Kydd's hurried hand signal. 'Ah - we would, er, do that if'n we worn't so bad in th' back. See, we had to 'aul up on this mast thing, an' it did fer me back, it did. Be roight in a coupla days, I guess.'

Powlett's smile thinned. 'And you?' he asked Weems, who started with apprehension.

'Me too, yer honour, I wuz with 'im when we both did in our backs.'

Fairfax pushed forward. 'Wharf rats, that's what they are!' he spluttered. 'They're no seamen! We must put 'em ashore, sir, before—'

'No — recollect, sir, we are on a mission of some delicacy,' Powlett said. 'No one goes ashore.'

He paced around the pair, jaw clamped. 'We landed three sick at Calcutta, I must allow as the appearance of this pair is not unwelcome.' He stopped, and a thin smile appeared. 'Mr Fairfax, rate these two Landman, but as Mr Kydd found them, he can be responsible to see they measure up.'

The two soldiers snapped to attention, saluted smartly Army fashion and doubled away forward. Jaw dropping, Powlett stared after them; Kydd quickly touched his hat and mumbled, 'I’ll see they measure up, sir,' and hurried after them.

A bare week later they had passed the new settlement of Penang to larboard, keeping close in with the land to catch the useful southward current, and entered a different, more airy kind of tropical regime. The sailing master had not passed this way since his youth, but his memory was sure, and they sailed on confidently past Malacca.

At almost the line of the equator they approached the southern tip of Malaya. Artemis ghosted along in the sultry stillness preceding the usual regular dog-watch deluge. Under the awning aft muslin clung damply to female limbs as the women chattered excitedly, exclaiming at the riot of jungle greenery and coconut palms.

Over the still water came the clatter of wings as a covey of parrots rose into the air, their squawks ignored by the troop of monkeys swinging through the dense foliage underneath.

'Enchanting!' said Lady Elmhurst. 'I say, Mr Prewse,' she said to the Master, 'have we time do you think to take a small picnic on the land over there?'

'My lady, I don' think it so advisable, if you takes me meaning,' Prewse said, removing his old tricorne to mop his forehead.

'No, I do not at all take your meaning,' Lady Elmhurst snapped. Her fan increased its tempo as she turned to Powlett. 'Captain Powlett, surely an hour or two on the land will not discommode you — we have after all been cooped up in this little ship for weeks now.'

Powlett removed his cocked hat with a pleasant smile, but thwacked it at his side. 'Mr Prewse, do you think it advisable for the ladies to step ashore in this particular place?'

Prewse rubbed his chin. 'It's a lovely part o' the world, that I'll grant, but there's a mort o' bother ashore. First, we have the tigers.'

'The tigers? This seems—'

'The tigers, milady. Over there they runs free, an' you can't see 'em in these woods until theys on you, all roarin' and big teeth. Then there's y'r snakes.' He paused — the fan stopped. 'Biggest in th' whole world, they is here, long as y'r main yard,' he said quietly, pointing out the largest spar in the ship. 'Hides near a brook, hangin' down from the tree quiet like. Eats a whole goat at one gulp when it comes down t' drink.'

He scratched his head. 'Then you've got y'r Dyaks. Bad joss, is they. Nasty cannibals they are, saves the head f'r to decorate their homes, but eats the rest on a slow fire. Comes down the coast fast in their three-piece canoes, on y' quick, 'cos you can't see 'em in this. S'pose I could land a party of marines, armed seamen, with ye. You'd have a good chance then—'

'Thank you, there will be no need. I now recollect that my husband has impressed upon me the need for despatch. We need to press on, I believe.'

Once around the peninsula they were in the South China Sea. Imperceptibly, the seascape changed. The glaring equatorial seas gave way to a hard cobalt blue, and then by degrees, as they progressed northward against the winter monsoon, to a particular shade of jade-green.

The fishing boats they encountered as they tacked towards the China coast were of an unknown appearance. Their keel-less hull form, more like a banana than a sea-boat, had a baleful multi-coloured eye painted on the bow. Kydd's seaman's eye, however, saw that the violent bobbing and rolling was an effective method of keeping the craft dry. There was not an inch of water shipped, despite the considerable seas, and the tiny fisher-children were entirely at home in the tumultuous motion. Closer to the mountainous grey-green seaboard there were more of the strange three-masted craft, their ribbed sails distinctive against the coastline.

The winter monsoon was cold off the sea, and had the seamen rummaging in their chests for Channel warmers. Artemis closed with the anonymous shoreline, bound for the Pearl river and Canton, their landfall in China.

'What does it all mean, Nicholas?' Kydd asked over his grog, pointing at Renzi's book. There was a real need for rum to warm the cockles, the streaming north-westerly monsoon being so stern. He had seen hardly anything of his friend since Calcutta: Renzi's interest in the Orient was insatiable and he had spent every spare minute with his volumes and in discussion with the savants.

'To understand this, my friend, you must know that the Chinese have now the most mighty civilisation on this earth.'

Kydd opened his eyes wide. Others were not so sure, and looks were exchanged. 'You're saying as . . .'

'Yes. They can trace their history in a straight line from before the ancients of our race right up to the present Emperor, Chien Lung. You may believe that in that time they have learnt something of the arts of civilisation. And its size! A hundred or more times ours, stretches from the frozen north to the tropics, and from the Pacific half across all Asia. It's amazing! The people - why, there are so many that it is thought that one out of every three or four souls on earth is Chinese.'

The mess members paused in their meal to stare at him blankly or with troubled expressions. This was not a subject that was often brought up at mess-table in a man-o'-war.

'Then tell me this, mate,' said Cundall, waving his grog can in Renzi's face, 'why ain't they conquer'd the world, then, if it's like you said?'

Renzi recoiled from the can with faint distaste. 'I said a mighty civilisation, and that is what it is. Their government under the Celestial Emperor is a just one, for it requires every officer to compete for his post by written examination — every one, from beadle and magistrate to general and governor. This makes certain that only the very best can reach the high offices of the land, and true and just governance is the sure result.'

'Cundall has a point,' Kydd pressed.

'Therefore they have disdain for lesser attempts at civilised conduct, and have withdrawn from the world. They have no need for its paltry achievements, and so they keep the world at a distance - and that is why we are quarantined in Canton, to keep their civilisation pure.'

The table broke into indignant rumbling.

Kydd snorted. 'Be damn'd to the scrovy crew! They got no right—'

'They have every right! It's beholden on us to step quietly in their land — if nothing else, I would not like to be the one to tread on the Dragon's tail.'

'Sounds jus' like you're one o' their yeller stripe, Mr Chinaman,' Cundall spat, the grog thickening his voice.

Renzi looked at him speculatively. The mess fell silent, for Renzi as an aggrieved party was still an unknown.

'Nicholas . . .' Kydd began.

'No, fair question.' Renzi looked down at the table, and when his face looked up again, it was with a smile touched with a degree of serious introspection, a look Kydd recognised immediately. 'I do confess to a liking - no, a respect and honour for their metaphysick. They approach matters of logic in a curious and obscure way, and I am determined to learn of it at origin. And I am not too proud to say that it may reveal truths that might in fact reflect ill on our own polity.' He drained his pot and left.

The final approach of the two vessels as they stood towards the coast saw a strengthening of the wind and a steepening of the waves, which obliged them to shorten sail. On deck foul-weather gear made its appearance in the thickening spray, and the few sightseers disappeared below.

Next to the Master was the stumpy figure of the just-boarded China Seas pilot, who looked more confident than the near proximity of a rocky coast would have seemed to justify. In sight there were only islands dark green with bamboo clumps interspersed with grey rocky outcrops, against which the seas surged in soundless white explosions.

The brisk gale whipped the wave-tops to an angry white, leaving tiger claws in their wake, and the vessels lurched awkwardly. Even the doughty fishing junks were retiring towards the land, and the two foreign ships found themselves converging with them on an obscure passage opening up to leeward.

Helm over, Artemis bore away downwind, and slipped down the narrow channel between the steep sides of a large island on one side and the mainland on the other. A cluster of hovels, a small jetty and bobbing sampans of a tiny fishing village and they were through. The seas moderated, and the ship settled for the run into a fine harbour of at least five miles of roadstead sheltered on three sides.

Apart from one or two more of the stilted fisher-villages there was nothing to break the barren appearance of the steep rocky island, but ahead there was a flat peninsula pointing directly at the centre of the island.

'Pray what is this place?' said the envoy.

The pilot started, then gave a jerky half-bow. 'They calls it Heung Kong, m'lord, means "Place of the fragrant waters" on account o' the good waterin' to be had after a long sea v'yage.'

There were masts and yards visible beyond the peninsula, and Lord Elmhurst gestured at them. 'It would seem that we are not the only mariners to appreciate its qualities,' he said.

'Well, now, m'lord, that's 'cos we have here a port o' refuge that's good enough even f'r a tai fung — what they calls a regular goin' hurricane hereabouts.' The pilot noticed the envoy's eyebrows rise and hastened to add, 'Not as we're likely to get one this late in th' season.'

They passed the tip of the peninsula and its scattering of huts. The harbour opened up spectacularly, steep islands and sea passages in a maze on all sides. Sampans and fishing junks passed them by with not even a curious look at the trim and deadly frigate.

'Haaaands to moor ship!' With best bower anchor cleared away, Artemis took in sail and glided to a standstill, her anchor tumbling down into the jade-green waters and leaving the man-o'-war to her longed-for rest.

'Mr Merrydew.'

'Sir?' The boatswain touched his hat unwillingly. There was much to do in a ship that had travelled so far.

'Lord Elmhurst will proceed upriver to see the Chinese Viceroy in Canton. As you know, the navigation is hazardous for great ships - sandbars and shoals - so he will instead take passage in a John Company cutter. We will provide the crew. Find five men you know are reliable and tell them to muster in the waist at six bells in their best rig.' Powlett's head thrust forward and his eyes narrowed. 'And should they be taken by barrel fever and bring dishonour to this ship, I will personally see their liver at the gangway. Do I make myself clear?'

The East India Company cutter Leila leant to the keen wind, slashing through the waves like a knife. It was Kydd's first experience of true fore-and-aft rig — the tiny square topsail did not really count — and it was a revelation. There was no way the craft could take to the open ocean, but inshore its speed and ability to lie close to the wind made it ideal.

Now on their way up the Pearl river, Kydd saw ahead: where the two sides of the bay rapidly swept together into twin high bluffs, the river constricted to less than a mile. High above, frowning down from the eminence of the craggy rock face, were two facing forts exceptionally well placed to command the approaches.

'Chuen Pi,' the pilot said to Lord Elmhurst, who sat in an ornate canvas chair on the after deck. 'Or, as the Portuguese have it, Boca Tigris — the tiger's mouth.'

Kydd, tending the main sheets with Adam, was able to take in every word. He would try to remember the details, for Renzi had not been selected for this duty. 'Like a pusser's shirt on a marline spike,' was the boatswain's unkind comment; the tropics had indeed left Renzi thin and rangy. With a twinge Kydd remembered the forlorn devastation on Renzi's face as he had left to go on to witness the marvels of the Orient at first hand without him.

A puff of smoke jetted from one fort, followed a little later by a hollow boom. The sound reverberated between the high sides of the passage and Kydd thought he could detect the almost tuneful resonance of bronze cannon.

Minutes later, the gaudy ribbed sails of a war-junk appeared from behind a prominence. The three lateen-rigged sails worked against each other to achieve remarkable manoeuvrability.

'Back yer topsail an' brail up!' growled Quinlan, the Master's mate at the tiller. The cutter slowed to a stop as the sails were dowsed, and she wallowed uncomfortably.

'Shouldn't have any trouble,' the pilot said. 'We does the run every week, an' there's no squeeze unless y'r carryin' cargo.'

The war-junk dipped and plunged towards them, pennants and streamers in the wind, a big painted eye on each bow. It passed down one side; Kydd saw weed and sea-growth hanging long and unkempt, the sailors in their curious conical hats lounging, bored.

Going about, the vessel came up the other side of them; on the turn there was the same wild rocking to the waves as the fishing-boats he had seen earlier, and the same astonishingly dry decks. It passed close by, and Kydd could see guns on deck, green-streaked bronze cannon with muzzles in the form of rudimentary dragon mouths. It passed ahead, and from its leeward guns came a perfunctory three-gun salute.

'Let go an' sheet in,' snapped Quinlan, and shaped course to follow. They passed between the bluffs and into the land beyond. The cliffs gradually subsided and the river widened to a quite different prospect; hummocks and the flatness of paddy-fields stretching away to the grey-blue of distant mountains. The river slowed and dissipated into a maze of sandbanks and waterways. Two merchant ships lay at anchor in a tidepool, their sails carelessly draped in a loose furl, men hanging listlessly over the rail.

'C'n only get over at the top o' the tide, deep sea vessels/ the pilot said. 'With three sandbars, means ye can't make it up in under two days.'

They pressed on, the pilot standing close to Quinlan and muttering instructions. It was physically strenuous negotiating the tortuous bends, with the sudden tacking and gybing. Kydd worked hard at the mainsheets. As he hauled, he couldn't take his eyes off the land. It was outside his experience: subtly foreign vegetation, an exotic cooking smell on the air and the uniquely Oriental sights - stilt houses, a blindfolded water buffalo driven by a small boy in an endless circle, a monstrous sized water-wheel, and dotting the paddy-fields inland, several many-storeyed pagodas.

Lord Elmhurst remained on deck, choosing not to join his equerry in the comfortable half cabin. With his face set in a frown he scanned the unfamiliar panorama. 'How far is it to Canton?'

The pilot swung round. 'In large, it's forty-three miles from Boca Tigris, m'lord, but we notes that deep-water packets can only reach to Whampoa, jus' a dozen miles short.' He smiled and added, 'An' we'll be takin' our vittles there within the hour.'

The river narrowed again and as they surged past a stilted village Kydd heard for the first time the garrulous, noisy chatter of the Chinese against the lowing of water buffalo and squealing of pigs. Around the bend the river widened considerably. A large island occupied the middle of the river and anchored all along its shoreline were merchant ships, loading bales. From the shore rickety jetties ran out to the ships.

'Whampoa, m'lord,' the pilot said unnecessarily.

Neatly, Leila ran alongside an Indiaman. Stirk expertly dowsed the headsails and, turning quickly, grappled the boathook to her main-chains. It became apparent that Lord Elmhurst would not be swarming up the rope ladder to get aboard the merchant ship, but would be dining aboard Leila.

'Two hours to find scran,' warned Quinlan, who lost no time getting himself over the bulwark. The Indiaman's hatches were off, and a continuous line of coolies brought cedarwood tea-chests for loading; others were in the hold stowing, tomming down the cargo securely for the stormy trip home.

A man in breeches and shirt-sleeves glanced at them curiously, his eyes following every move of the coolies. Quinlan nodded to him and crossed the deck to the precarious planks of the brow down to the jetty.

Kydd's mind whirled at the impact on his senses — an unmistakable sickly stench from the vegetable plots, the charcoal smell of cooking fires and the sheer rich stink of land after months at sea. The flank of the central spine of the island was one long alley with shanty shops on both sides, each with its blank-faced proprietor in white gown, shaved head and slender pigtail to the waist. There was every kind of knick-knack and curio.

'Keep together,' Quinlan muttered. He seemed to have directions, and strode forward purposefully. There were occasional European sailors, but they were of another world, the merchant marine, and were in loose, serviceable sea-clothes that were as different from their own smart man-o'-war's rig as they were from the Chinese. Some even wore the baggy petticoat breeches of a previous age.

At the natural boundary of a stream they turned right and soon were in much more congenial surroundings: notwithstanding the bamboo walls and roof it was unmistakably a tavern. In fact, there were several — and more! They wasted no time and crowded into the first. The Cantonese pot-boy seemed to understand their needs and scurried away. Before they had chosen their rattan table and settled into the odd straight-backed chairs he was back, whisking foaming tankards before them.

'Well, stap me!' Stirk marvelled. 'Died 'n' gone t' heaven!' The pot-boy remained, standing quietly. His eyes were fathomless black buttons.

'Er, yair — anyone got some loot?'

Quinlan held up a Spanish silver dollar. 'This makee two rounds, you sawy, John?' he said, making a twirling motion with his finger. The man glanced back, with considerable dignity, thought Kydd. Apparently the answer was an affirmative for he nodded and left soundlessly.

It was nectar, the first beer ashore. The taste was more watery than their English palates would have preferred, but it was fresh and went down very rapidly.

'Hey, John! Next round - chop, chop!'

As swifdy as the first, another round was before them, and they raised their tankards. 'T' the poor bastards back aboard, an' workin' their hearts out.'

Kydd raised his tankard, thinking of Renzi. He didn't notice the men looming behind until one spoke. 'An' what are King's men doin' here, c'n I ask?' The speaker was bulky, unshaven, and there were several others with him.

'Yes, yer might ask, mate,' Stirk said mildly.

'Well?'

'Well, cully, we're not the press-gang — but we could make an exception in your case,' he said, with a chuckle.

'Don' you chouse us, matey — we tips the Hoppo an' he'll settle yer soon enough.' He folded his arms. 'Whampoa's fer merchantmen only — what're yez doing here?' The man's hectoring tone annoyed Kydd, who got to his feet.

Stirk interrupted him. 'We're here on a mishun,' he told the merchant sailor softly.

'A wot?' he replied mockingly. Kydd stiffened.

The man's lips curled in a derisive sneer. 'We don' hold with no pretty boys in sailor suits here — it's men only.'

Kydd's fist slammed out. The man fell back, roaring. Instantly, everyone was on their feet, defensively grouped behind Kydd.

The man felt his bloody nose. Snarling, he drew his knife. Kydd's heart thudded, but he was elbowed aside by Stirk, whose own blade was across his palm, held loosely forward.

'Seen 'is kind afore, mate - can't take a joke.' Stirk glanced behind, quickly. 'About time we weren't here, mates. Let's head back.'

Pitching his voice towards Kydd as they withdrew from the tavern the large man shouted, 'You watch yer back ashore, mate. You 'n' me got somethin't' settle.'

Stirk slid his knife back, and chuckled grimly. 'Merchant jacks — got me sympathy, always short-handed an' that, but pickin' a man-o'-war's man, they'd 'ave t' be pixy-led!'

Kydd winked at Stirk. 'Insultin' the King's uniform -couldn't help m'self.'

The last stage to Canton was through perfectly flat rice-fields that seemed to stretch away for ever into the immense unknown of Asia, an alien vastness that made Kydd shiver. Abruptly the last bend straightened and within sight of the city walls the northern bank opened up, with wide buildings fronting the river. In front of each was a flag-pole with a national flag firmly in place.

The largest and most central had the Union flag of Great Britain, and they headed towards it. Respectfully, Kydd handed the envoy up the wooden steps to the small group at the top.

The sailors waited in the cutter until the formalities were complete. The envoy's small party moved off, and a figure appeared at the edge of the wharf. 'Hey, you lot, up here, chop, chop!'

The seamen looked at each other, shrugged and clambered up. The young man at the top was in white silk breeches and loose shirt, and was coatless. He surveyed the group in surprise, their trim appearance apparently a novelty. 'So, Lord Elmhurst has given instructions that you shall be the, er, guests of John Company while he is in Canton.' There was a noticeable hesitation. 'And it seems I shall be answerable for your conduct while he is here.'

The young face had a patrician stamp and an easy confidence, but it was clear that its owner was unsure of a situation that placed him with the responsibility for a crew of hard-looking naval seamen.

Stirk folded his arms and stared at him, while Quinlan stepped forward to the front and tugged his tarpaulin hat to an aggressive tilt.

The young man seemed to come to a decision. 'I'm Jamesen, supercargo in John Company for my sins.' The tone of his voice suggested that he had decided to take them into his confidence rather than attempt to lord it over them. 'Now, Canton is different from any place you've ever been to, and there's rules here which are stupid, childish and cruel — but this is China, and we have no choice. There's a hundred million Chinese over there,' he said, waving towards the endless paddy-fields, 'and we are a few hundred. Do you get my drift?'

The interior of the mess was airy and cool, the furniture spare. With the seamen incongruously clutching an eggshelllike teacup of transparent green tea, Jamesen explained further. 'Trade is everything — we buy tea, they buy . . . not much. They think they're the centre of the world, and everyone else is a barbarian and needs to be kept at a distance, so all trade with the biggest country in the world is through the one place. Canton!

'Now, I warn you in all sincerity, if you cause an incident, we can do nothing to save you. All dealings are through the Hoppo, a greasy, fat and entirely corrupt chief of the Co-Hong, which are a scurvy crew appointed by the Viceroy to deal with the barbarians and save him getting his hands dirty — as long as he gets his cut.' He finished his tea and refilled his cup. 'The season finishes soon, and we all have to fall back to our families in Macao, until March.'

He paused, and grinned. 'Your envoy will find that he will get his audience, and his presents will be graciously accepted, but he will have to wait for his reply at Macao like the rest, so

I doubt you'll be here long. There's shops and things around here, we're pretty self-contained. Wouldn't advise going off on your own. Be in the mess by sundown, don't get fuddled with drink, beware of everything and everybody.'

They nodded. They were not about to go on the ran-tan ashore hereabouts.

Jamesen softened a little. 'If there's any wants a stroll, it's my practice to take a turn around the city walls before dark. Anyone want to come?' Stirk and Kydd were the only takers.

They stepped it out, down the narrow alleys and along the sandy northern banks of the Pearl river. Much closer to the city the bustle increased. Flooding the pathways were Chinese of every description, carrying trussed chickens, yokes suspending large dark jars and huge clusters of unrecognisable vegetables. Their constant chattering was deafening.

'You know, it's instant execution for any Chinese teaching the language to a foreign devil,' said Jamesen. ^‘Tui m syu!’ he added politely, stepping around an old lady struggling with a bound piglet.

A palanquin with oiled-paper windows swayed towards them, preceded by a lackey in an embroidered gown banging a gong to clear a path. There was no sign of the occupant.

Kydd noticed a ragged bundle floating in the river. 'Ah, that you'll find is a female baby - up-country they want strong sons, not useless girls. Easiest way to solve the problem,' Jamesen explained.

Just before the dilapidated walls was a small sandy beach, and a crowd gathered around some officials. A large drum pounded monotonously. 'You may be interested in this,' Jamesen said languidly.

They hovered on the edge of the crowd and watched two men being brought forward. They had signs in Chinese characters around their necks, and their heads hung in listless dejection. 'They're pirates - probably peached on by their friends.' The men were thrust to their knees, facing the water. Reading from a scroll, an official chanted loudly, then suddenly whipped it down and stepped back. From the crowd came a man bared to the waist, carrying a highly polished Oriental sword. He swaggered up to the first pirate and stood ready. The noise from the crowd buzzed on without change.

At a screamed order from the official the executioner made ready, slowly and deliberately. Kydd went cold. The sword went up, the crowd's chatter continued to wash around unabated; the victim had nothing but a blank look on his face but tensed slightly. The sword blurred down and connected with a meaty crunch, the head bounced twice on the sand while the torso toppled slowly, gouting blood from the neck.

'Doesn't seem to deter them,' Jamesen commented. 'The pirates, I mean.'

There was no variation in the cheerful hum of conversations in the crowd. The seamen watched as the second pirate lost his head. Stirk looked at Kydd, but didn't speak.

The city walls were decrepit and crumbled at the edges. 'Never really needed these since the Ming dynasty was overthrown,' Jamesen said, kicking away a half-eaten gourd of some sort of fruit.

They paced along slowly, deliberately ignoring the small barefoot boys who tagged on behind chanting, ^lFaan kwai! Hung mo-tik faan kwai lo!’

At Kydd's look, Jamesen explained, 'Seems you're the usual sort of a hairy foreign devil.'

On the way back, they wended through a market, a riotous mix of women bargaining shrilly and vociferous stall-keepers. Edging around them, Kydd had never in his life felt so conspicuous, and was not helped by the many darting looks, some curious, most sullen and venomous.

"Ere - rum dos!' Stirk had seen a movement in a large wicker basket and was standing over it, pointing. Kydd crossed to see and was shocked to see that it contained a human being, tied in a foetal position.

'It's not—'

Jamesen cocked an eye, then grabbed his arm. 'Leave now!' His voice was urgent. The talking had died away around them, and there was hostility in the air. They hurried off, pursued by derisive shouts.

'What?'

'Not your fault,' said Jamesen breathlessly. 'They're on display.' He paused to recover. 'Don' tell me!' Stirk growled.

'Yes. If they're found guilty, they're on display at the scene of the crime until sunset, then they're taken out and strangled on the spot. Silk rope, of course.'

'O' course,' Stirk said hoarsely:

Jamesen sniffed into a handkerchief and went on. 'They don't like the foreign devils to get involved — I'll be glad to get back to the compound. A few years ago they got hold of a gunner of a Bristol packet caught in an accident.' He looked back furtively, and went on. 'They tortured him publicly in front of the family concerned before strangling him.'

* * *

In the factory Jamesen found some wine. 'Has to be drunk anyway before we retire to Macao. China is old and ancient,' he mused. 'Decaying on the inside and out. If some country knocked on the door hard enough, it would come crashing down and let some fresh air in. And trade.' He drained the glass expertly. 'As near eighty per centum of trade goes in English bottoms, I guess it'll be us doing the deed some day - and I hope soon.'

Hearing curt voices outside, Jamesen got to his feet. 'Stay here,' he commanded. He was back quickly. As I thought. You'll be going down-river tomorrow to await the Viceroy's reply. I'll see to your sleeping arrangements.'

Renzi said nothing, simply puffed quietly on his long clay pipe and sat back on the foredeck of Artemis. Kydd tried to provoke him, but could not break his composure, only a slight smile betraying anything of his feelings. The others had left the deck when the chill of evening crept in, leaving the two alone.

'An' you are telling me this is th' mark of civilisation?' Kydd continued, with heat.

Renzi stirred and knocked out his pipe on the planksheer. Red sparks of dottle cascaded prettily into the gloaming. 'My dear fellow, how can I say? I was not there, I was never a witness to these . . . untoward events.' Inwardly he was hot with indignation that he had not been able to see for himself. He was sure that the savant would not lie, and that the precepts of Confucius did indeed inform the actions of the ruling class, but this?

Kydd snorted. 'If you had seen f'r yourself only - or, better still, smelt f'r yourself! It's a — a beast of a country.' He longed for the words to put into stark, unmistakable perspective for Renzi what he had experienced: the stink, the cacophonous noise, the unconcern for life.

'If we remain for long here, I've no doubt I shall. But I hear tomorrow we shift berth to Macao.' He looked sideways at Kydd. 'Which, as you will know, is a Portuguese territory, and therefore an ally of ours in this war, and I have no doubt will give us a warm welcome.'

Kydd grunted. 'It'll still be the same as the rest of China.'

Chapter 8

The opposite side of the Pearl river was nowhere near as spectacular: in place of the deep clear green were the muddy shallows of the estuary, and around them craggy islands lay subdued and sleepy. However, where their great anchorage was nearly bereft of human habitation, Macao offered a compact, pleasing prospect of familiar buildings from the home continent. As their anchor splashed down, it was possible to make out dark stone forts, the facade of a cathedral, state buildings in a comfortable pink wash and all the appurtenances of a sane world.

Kydd's heart lifted. It would be good to step ashore here. 'Do we get liberty soon, d'ye suppose?'

As they spoke, a nineteen-gun salute puffed out in distant thuds from the fort commanding the town below, to be returned with the sharper report of the frigate's bow deck guns as she glided to a stop. Boats were quickly in the water and the envoy, in plumed cocked hat and sword, went down the side to his waiting barge for the steady pull over to the quay and the guard of welcome.

The boat secured to the landing stage, and in dignified silence the envoy of His Britannic Majesty mounted the steps. Harsh shouts from the waiting Portuguese guard commander brought his men to attention.

Lord Elmhurst and his equerry turned - and stopped. The formed up ceremonial guard that stared back at them was of every possible tint of mestizo, undersized and with threadbare regimentals. Their European officers wore ornate uniform that, however, drooped sadly. But there was no mistaking the warmth of the welcome. With earnest cries of welcome the desembargador advanced on them.

The envoy, deciding that there was no deeper meaning to the astonishing sight, moved forward, to the almost perceptible relief of the Portuguese.

'So it's leave t' both watches,' Doud said, with relish. 'An we're gonna be here fer ever, if it's ter be believed,' he added contentedly.

'Aye, but without s' much as a single cobb in me bung, what's th' use?' said Cundall ungraciously.

Petit had a long face. 'What's amiss, Elias?' Kydd asked.

Stirring in his seat, Petit said dourly, 'It ain't good fer a man-o'-war ter stay too long in port. Seen it 'appen in foreign parts, y' gets all the sickness 'n' pox goin' from off of the land. Sea, it's clean 'n' good, land . . .'

'Yeah, well, no harm in a frolic ashore,' laughed Doud. 'A cruise with a right little piece sets a man up fer his next v'yage.'

Kydd was stitching carefully at the fluting of the smart blue jacket Renzi had last worn in celebration in Portsmouth, on the other side of the world. 'Seems regular enough, buildings and such/ he said, biting off the thread and picking up his own jacket.

'They've been here since before the age of old Queen Bess - plenty of time to make themselves comfortable, I think,' Renzi replied, and put on his jacket.

'What d'ye think to find there, Nicholas?'

'I'd be content to see where Camoens wrote the immortal Luisiadas.' At the dry looks this received, he persevered: 'Grievously shipwrecked, then manages to get himself banished to here. The poem is about one of the greatest of sailors — Vasco da Gama.'

There were no sudden cries of understanding although Petit nodded wisely. 'But, mark you, Kydd's right - this's still China, 'n' Toby 'as told me a piece about what he saw in Canton. I'd steer small were I ashore, if I wuz you.'

With the Walmer Castle on her slow way up-river to Whampoa to discharge and load, and the rest of the envoy's party safely conveyed to their lodgings, the ship prepared for the wait. Even with the busy China trade vulnerable, for some reason the French had not reached this far across the globe, perhaps distracted by the work of the guillotine and the frenzied mob at home. It was considered therefore that the threat was low, and that the frigate could remain quietly at rest.

Artemis lay in harbour to two anchors. Her sails were thoroughly dried, naked topmasts sent down. Communication was set up with the shore for a daily supply of victuals, and soft tack was on the table for the first time since England. With the frigate as trim and shipshape as could be found in any top naval port it was time to step ashore.

The leafy sweep of the Praia Grande gave the appearance of some comfortable Iberian town but for the fact that the majority of the population was not European. Besides the ubiquitous Chinese there was the black of Negro slaves, the varying shades of brown of half-castes, and only occasionally the short, dark, compact figure of a Portuguese.

The gaudily coloured buildings were Portugal transplanted, and Pinto's eyes glistened with emotion. He stopped a Portuguese striding past and babbled to him, a curious thing for his shipmates to witness. The man looked at him contemptuously and gestured eastwards into the crowded city. 'He say all sailor go to Solmar to get hickey,' Pinto said happily.

'So we claps on all sail 'n' shapes course for th' Solmar!' Stirk said, to general approval.

'Perhaps we will join you later, Toby,' said Renzi diplomatically, catching Kydd's arm, and they plunged into the unknown inner city. The streets were steep and impossibly crowded. It was as if every square inch was valuable, and they were soon lost in the maze of ancient shops and anonymous structures seething with humanity.

They emerged suddenly from the press towards the top of a rise at the stone face of a cathedral, glowering down the hill at them, it seemed to their Protestant sensibilities. From the dark interior a priest emerged, a neat goatee beard flecked with grey on his sensitive lined face. He paced down the hill towards them, clearly in deep thought.

^‘S'il vous plait, aidez nous, mon Pere!’ Renzi tried, his Portuguese non-existent.

The man's head jerked up in astonishment, and his hands fluttered in non-comprehension. 'Non, er, non!’ he said, his voice high-pitched and agitated.

Renzi tried again. 'Bitte helfen Sie uns, Hochwurden.' The language of Goethe would be an unlikely acquisition for a Portuguese, but Renzi felt that his Latin would not be equal to the strain, and he was now at a loss.

'Do you have any Englis'?' the priest asked hopefully, his eyes darting between the two of them.

'Ah, sir, then you are a scholar?' Renzi said politely.

The priest flashed a quick look at him and smiled. 'Where there is trade, you find the Englis' and there is much trade here.'

'Then, sir, if you could assist me in a small way, we seek Camoens, the soldier-poet of the last age. Is there trace of him still?'

The priest's face turned from astonishment to bewilderment, and then satisfaction. 'You, sir, are then the scholar!' He shot a speculative glance at Renzi and ventured carefully, 'Aristotle - prophecy in sleep? Sir, I am no friend to his position, but I will gladly debate the matter at—'

He could go no further. The priest grasped his arms and held him at length. ^lMeu Deus! You are sent to me on this day of days. Pray walk with me to my residencia and we will sup together the lunch.' Recollecting himself, he turned to Kydd. 'You gentlemen are mos' welcome, and you shall see the casa of our Luis de Camoes presently.'

Kydd sighed. Neither the prospect of a discussion on Aristotle nor the inspection of this revered casa article was maintaining his spirits, which had looked forward to tasting the more direct pleasures of these foreign shores. Still, it was kind of the old fellow, and they did need something now, at noon. In any event, he had an hour or two to think of a ploy to raise the state of play to a more satisfactory level.

The priest's modest cell was close by, and they entered the cool room, tastefully set off by the hand-painted blue and white tiles covering one entire wall. The furniture was commodious, in the Chinese style. The chairs were tall and square-backed in dark wood, with a carved central panel. Across one corner of the room was a beautiful black and gilt screen fully six feet high, with an iridescent shell inlay of butterflies and bamboo.

Seated at the round table, sipping their green tea, they waited respectfully. The room smelt of the layered odours of untold centuries, and was redolent of peace.

The priest smiled at them. 'My name is Nunez - my flock call me Honrar. It has been my good fortune to follow in the shadow of Matteo Ricci and Adam Schall here in the College of Sao Paolo for thirty-eight years. You are sailors, no?'

'From the British frigate Artemis’ said Renzi.

'Macao is very old, very set in her ways,' he said seriously. 'We Portuguese, it must be faced, have now passed the time of our greatness. For us, history has ceased.'

Renzi made a gesture, but the priest was looking at Kydd. 'But you, the British, are a race that has found itself in these troubling times, and greatness lies waiting before you.' His face was difficult to read. 'Thus you will pardon me if I make myself clear. Do not expect us to like you. Your manners are turbulent and thrusting, you are impatient with the old ways, you are confident - very sure — and we are afraid of you.'

Renzi stirred. 'But surely you can see that as a nation we trade, we do not conquer?'

'Trade always brings a domination in its wake!' Nunez did not smile, and the two sailors sat uncomfortably.

'We do not allow any of your trading hongs to own land or dwellings in Macao, only to rent. This is because, as you will surely see, you British are rich and powerful and we are not. You are growing restless at your lack of a trading port and may seize our own.'

Hesitating, Kydd spoke awkwardly. 'Sir, I'm only a seaman, but I c'n see that Macao is too small for y'r deep-sea vessels — we saw a rattlin' good place for a port over the other side, Heung Kong its name.'

The priest's eyes glimmered. 'A bare rock on which you will have to build houses, docks, roads — I don't think even the British would do that if there is another for the taking.' Unexpectedly, he got to his feet. 'But I am ungracious! Perhaps it has been so long since — excuse me.'

He swiftly left the room, his dark gown swishing. Kydd turned to Renzi, but at his look did not speak. The priest returned with a bottle and three glasses. 'I hope you will join me at wine, cavalheiros?

It was a musky Sercial, mellow and gentle. From somewhere inside the house floated a tantalising odour of food, but even in its richness there was nothing they could identify.

'We eat in the Chinese style. It is cheaper and more convenient,' Nunez said apologetically. The odour took form and strength, of a potent but mouth-watering character. 'Oh, yes, I hope you do not mind, but it is my regular practice in this season to offer hospitality to another at noon - she will join us soon.'

Renzi seemed not to have heard. His face grew in intensity and leaning forward he asked, 'The soul-stealers of the Kao Hsuang! Can it be that they have overthrown the sacred precepts of Confucius, or do they bend him to their philosophy?'

'Ah! You know of these?' Nunez asked, in amazement. 'Your answer is that in their deviltry they have their own philosophy, and it is based on the Janus-faced sayings of Hsun-tzu, who teaches that—'

The door opened and a figure appeared, limned in the sunlight from outside and therefore difficult to see.

'Oh – Honrar’ You have guests. I . . .' It was a young woman's voice.

'No, no, child, you are welcome. Please come in and take your place.'

The door closed and Kydd watched a young lady unlace her bonnet to let her auburn hair tumble down in lazy waves. She stood uncertain, a petite but self-assured girl of less than twenty years, with an elfin face and large eyes. She looked directly at Kydd. She was pretty rather than beautiful but the strength in her features and the sharp sculpted curving of her face had its effect on Kydd — a sharp and uncomfortable sensual shock.

Gracefully she sat down at the table, next to Kydd, managing to do so without looking at him again.

'Minha cara, these are my guests,' Nunez said. 'They are sailors from the British warship .. .'

'Nicholas Renzi and Thomas Kydd, horn Artemis frigate,' Renzi offered. Kydd caught his look of interest in the girl.

'Miss Sarah Bullivant,' she said, sitting straight-backed, her hands firmly in her lap. 'I trust your visit will be a pleasant one,' she added, her eyes falling carefully between the two of them.

'It could prove a lengthy one by all events,' said Renzi. Kydd thought that his manner was unnecessarily unctuous.

She looked up. 'Pray, why will that be?' 'Why, I stand amazed the world does not know of it — His Britannic Majesty's envoy Lord Elmhurst awaits a reply from the Viceroy of Canton touching on his mission to the Emperor in Peking.'

'Then be assured, sir, the wait could well be a protracted one.' The coy flutter of her eyelashes as she engaged Renzi in conversation did not escape Kydd.

'It suggests that the British are attempting a separate agreement as to trade,' Nunez agreed.

Just inches from her body, Kydd felt his own respond, and a betraying dull heat crept up his neck. At sea, with not the slightest femininity to trigger sexuality, desire subsided, a quiescence not troubled by ribaldry or images, but the first woman encountered ashore, by her sensual proximity, provoked an immediate awakening. Kydd could detect Miss Bullivant's faint scent, and sensed her body outline beneath her dress.

'Not the odious opium trade, I do sincerely pray.' She dabbed at her generously curved lips.

There! Kydd exulted. Her face was still turned towards Renzi, but her eyes had flicked sideways.

T am in full accord with you, Miss Bullivant,' Renzi said elegantly. To Kydd's savage delight his slight pause was not rewarded by a bidding to continue. 'Yet there are some who point out that we English regularly consume opium without ill effects — laudanum, your Godfrey's cordial. Could it possibly be that the Chinese character is weaker, less in control?'

As the food arrived, Nunez grunted. 'It is well known, saving your presence, that the English have long sought a species of trade that can balance the books for all the tea they must have - and they care not for its origin.'

There was an uncomfortable silence, the clatter of crockery sounding overly loud. Nunez handled the chopsticks like a native; Sarah was capable but without elegance, and Renzi fumbled. Kydd surveyed the cluster of little dishes and resolutely abstracted the flat-bottomed spoon from a dark sauce dish, which he then proceeded to wield on everything.

'Ah, yes, my friend!' Nunez turned to Renzi. 'The Casa Camoes.' He laid down his chopsticks on their little rest. 'It lies within the grounds of a residencia which is let to Mr Drummond, of your East India Company.' He smiled. 'I do believe that were a young lady to desire entrance then you would more readily gain admittance. Sarah, would you . . .'

Sarah's face tightened. 'Sir, it is not my practice to be observed in public with sailors.'

Kydd flushed. But there was no avoiding it — a woman with Jack Tar ashore had only one purpose.

Nunez's face creased in amusement. 'In that case, let me be of assistance. I have . . . what do you say? The walking-out clothes. They are perhaps unfashionable in these days, and are in the older style, but they would fit you, sir,' he said, looking at Renzi.

They did indeed. Renzi, in double-breasted waistcoat and many-buttoned buff-coloured coat together with cream breeches, elegantly flexed his rather skinny legs. This set off peals of laughter from Sarah. Kydd sat morose and overlooked in the corner.

'M'lady,' Renzi said, sweeping the tall royal blue tricorne hat down in an elegant bow. It was too small, but that only seemed to amuse Sarah the more. He offered his arm, which Sarah took with a gracious nod. Kydd got to his feet. Sarah looked at Renzi uncertainly.

'Miss Bullivant,' said Renzi softly, 'it would oblige me greatly if Mr Kydd were to accompany us.'

She glanced back at Kydd. Her eyes dropped to his lower body, and Kydd's pulse quickened. 'Very well,' she said coolly, looking directiy at him. 'Providing he follows on behind at a distance.'

Kydd boiled over. 'Be damn'd to you!' He thrust towards the door. Outside, he took several deep breaths and set off for the waterfront.

The gloomy berth-deck of Artemis was almost deserted, its clear sweep fore-and-aft interrupted only by a few hammocks. Kydd sat under one of the few lanthorns hung this late in the evening.

He had gone to the Solmar, which was packed with Artemis sailors, but they were all far gone in drink and no proper solace for wounded pride and unslaked lust. Briefly he had toyed with the idea of finding a woman to spend the night with among the throng, but something in his Methodist upbringing and a personal aversion to giving his body to a harlot stopped him.

Thus, in the way of sailors, he had returned to the bosom of his ship. For some reason he had pulled out the sea-chest he and Renzi shared. Here it was, mellowing with age and sea-use and carved with a mermaid cartouche that Renzi had contrived in the long days in the Indian Ocean before Calcutta.

With an unformed wish for repudiation of their friendship Kydd rummaged through its contents, each piece evoking lengthening memories. Neatly stacked along a good quarter of the chest were Renzi's books.

At random he picked one up. These were the real source of Renzi's success, his readiness with words, his effortless authority on all things. Kydd felt a stab of fury at the ease with which he had charmed Sarah. It was now past evening and well into the night — what was he doing to her now? Rage made him choke but with a force of will he crushed the thoughts. If Renzi had succeeded with Sarah, then that was his good luck. He would have done the same. The matter at hand was to get himself to the same level if it were possible — and he would damned well make it so.

Here in his hands was the key. He opened the book. The type was tiny and difficult to read in the guttering lanthorn light; the tide page was flowery and embellished with intertwined pictures of animals. 'D. Diderot - On the Interpretation of Nature it read, together with a flurry of cursive French. Kydd leafed slowly through it: it seemed to deal in unbelievable wordiness with reason and observation, but if this was what gave Renzi the ability to speak, he would ingest it too.

He settled down at the beginning, and read haltingly, disturbed neither by the noisy arrival back on board of drunken and querulous seamen nor the raucous teasing of his shipmates. His eyes grew heavy, the words more difficult, and when Renzi finally returned on board all he could do was remove the book gently from Kydd's slumped figure and shake his head wonderingly.

Almost alone at their breakfast burgoo, Kydd and Renzi ate silently, avoiding each other's eyes. When they finished, neither rose from the mess table.

'Wish y' joy of—'

'I'm to tell you—'

Breaking off in embarrassment, their eyes met. A tentative smile spread over Kydd's features, which was quickly returned by Renzi. 'The Portugee priest wishes to see me again,' said Renzi, with a sigh. 'A disputatious wretch, yet I will indulge him a little further, I believe.' 'And does Miss Bullivant . . .'

'The young lady unaccountably wishes to be remembered to you,' Renzi replied neutrally.

Kydd's voice thickened. 'Last night—'

'Last night I had the felicity of debating the nature of the Chinee, the solemn imperatives of their beliefs and the impervious nature of their society with as erudite a colleague as ever I could wish.'

'But . . .'

'Miss Bullivant was obliging enough to conduct me to the casa garden of Camoens, where I looked on the rocks of his inspiration.'

'She . . .'

'On conclusion, she bade me farewell, and returned with her maid, who accompanied us throughout,' Renzi said flady.

Kydd fiddled with a piece of bread, but refused to give Renzi further satisfaction.

A twisted grin surfaced on Renzi's face. 'I am desired to inform you that she has been able to procure some suitable long clothes. She hopes you will find these satisfactory enough to be able to accompany us this afternoon on a visit to Sao Tiago.'

A leaping exultation transformed Kydd's spirits. So he had not been mistaken about those glances!

Something of his feelings must have been visible, for Renzi continued, in a lazy, teasing voice, 'Of course, I did inform her that you were desolated, that your watch on deck in this instance takes precedence—' He broke off at the dangerous flare in Kydd's eyes, then continued, 'Of course, they are the clothes of a dead man.'

For all Kydd cared he would strip the body himself, but he waited.

'Who died of the bloody flux - before he could accept them from the tailor's,' Renzi finished lamely.

Eight bells at noon could not come fast enough. Liberty was granted from then until daybreak the next day in this relaxed 'river discipline'. Kydd and Renzi hurried off and soon were welcomed into the old residence.

The feel of silk stockings against his legs after the freedom of a sailor's trousers was odd. The nankeen breeches and the soft royal-blue coat added to the strangeness, and to Kydd it was a reminder of the flabbiness of shore life. Nevertheless, he rotated proudly before the mirror. The strong muscular definition of his body did peculiar things to the hang of the garments, but with his black hair in a neat club he made a striking figure.

He sniffed as though bored, and turning, made an awkward bow to Sarah. It brought no amusement as Renzi's had, but the sudden lift of her chin and averted eyes told him that he had her attention.

'Milady?' he said, with satisfaction.

'Ah Lee is curious,' Sarah said. They were sitting in the outdoor garden of the Sol Dourado waiting for their tea. 'She now has a quantity of gossip for her friends, I think.' The little black and white Chinese amah with the twinkling eyes and long queue said little, but Kydd had felt the darting glances during the walk when she had followed respectfully behind.

Sarah sat opposite Kydd at the small round table, leaving Renzi to the side. For the first time he was able to take his fill of her prettiness; her characterful retrousse nose was complemented by the high, sculpted cheekbones. And the eyes, large and hypnotic: he would need determined self-control to avoid making a fool of himself.

'D'ye not find the Chinese a strange crew?' Kydd asked. He cursed inwardly as he remembered that she was governess to the progeny of a rich Chinese trader, who was now in Canton for the winter.

'Not when you make their further acquaintance,' she said. Her eyes had a powerful effect on Kydd, which he tried to hide. A tiny smile curving her wide-set lips showed perhaps that he was not as successful as he hoped.

Renzi leaned forward. 'One might argue that their very precepts make it impossible of a closer acquaintance,' he said.

Sarah's eyes lingered for a heartbeat on Kydd, then transferred their attention to Renzi. 'Sir, I am not in the philosophic line. My dealings are more of a practical nature,' she said daintily. The eyes returned to Kydd, and dropped modestly.

They were underneath a hibiscus tree, which in season would have been a picture. The dull pearlescence of the winter monsoon swirled about them in the form of a fine mist of tiny dewdrops, which caught in Sarah's hair like a halo.

Kydd could not think of anything to say, and looked at Renzi. His friend lolled back, but was not at ease. He returned the look, and Kydd was startled at the stony hostility in his expression.

'I think Nicholas meant th' Chinese have, er, things in their civilisation which we find difficult t' take to — I saw sights in Canton that would make y' stare,' he said.

Renzi lurched upright. 'I most certainly did not! I say that by their contempt for our civilisation they have withdrawn themselves from our society and thus from all possibility of fellowship.'

'Oh!' Sarah said, her hand flying to her mouth and without a glance at Renzi. 'You have been to Canton? I would die to go - just the once - but ladies are not permitted.' Her eyes grew yet larger, and she leant forward towards Kydd.

Flustered, he knew what was happening, but was out of his depth. In Guildford he was vaguely aware that females were one of two types; the earnest but dowdy ones you married, and the exciting ones who always turned out to be shameless doxies. Sarah looked neither — or both. And she was driving a wedge between him and Renzi.

'Why, er, yes,' he said.

'Do tell me.' She cupped her face in her hands. Her eyes were enormous.

There was movement to the side. Renzi got to his feet. 'Pray excuse me, Miss Bullivant ... it is not often I get the opportunity - Honrar Nunez is expecting me. Do not trouble, I beg. . .' His voice seemed distant and preoccupied. 'Your servant,' he said, with a bow, and left without a glance at Kydd.

'He's sometimes a difficult fellow to understand,' mumbled Kydd.

'But he is your particular friend,' Sarah said immediately. 'I can tell. You have no idea how jealous that makes a woman - the closeness, I mean,' she said, dropping her eyes.

'We have - done much t'gether,' Kydd said defiantly.

'Yet you are so different.' Somehow her candour made things much easier than the delicacies of conversation before.

'What do you talk about?' she asked. 'No, that's unfair. You would not be friends unless you shared something -deep,' she said.

She sat back and stared at Kydd appraisingly. 'You look every part a sailor, Mr Kydd, and I do confess that before today I would rather be seen dead than talk to a ... sailor.'

'I understand,' Kydd said, stiffly.

'No, I don't mean that,' she said, her gloved hand coming out to squeeze his. 'Please forgive what I said about sailors before, but . . .'

He forced her to feel her shame, then smiled. 'It's the most wonderful thing that ever happened t' me,' he said in simple sincerity.

She looked at him steadily. 'There are things in this life . . .' she began.

'My father is a schoolmaster also,' Kydd put in, thinking of her duty as a governess, but being a little hazy as to what that implied in pedagogy.

'Is he?' she said, looking puzzled.

'Well, not really,' Kydd said, and explained the saga of the naval school.

She sat still, her eyes unblinking. At the end she sighed. 'You're a very nice man, Mr Kydd.'

He was not sure if this meant his duty to his family or something more, so he compromised with an inaudible mutter.

'And a very interesting one - I demand you will tell me of your voyages across the bounding main. What marvellous things have you seen? Do tell!'

Kydd was no raconteur, his masculine directness only hinting at the loneliness and terror, the consuming bloodlust and exultation, the deeply affecting love of the sea, but it held Sarah spellbound in quite the same way as it had Cecilia. The afternoon passed, tea had come round at least three times, the fine mist insinuating cool and damp but still she would not let him go.

For Kydd, it was a dream, unreal, not of this existence. Less than a year ago he had been a perruquier in a small Surrey town, glad to be noticed by ordinary girls. Here, sitting in front of him, was a handsome woman of the world in far China who was fascinated by him.

Sarah stood, smiling down at him. He snapped out of his daze and scrambled to his feet. 'Would you see me home, if you please, Mr Kydd?'

'Ah, of course, er, Miss Bullivant,' he said. She waited; he waited.

'Take my arm, if you please,' she said primly. 'It is unseemly to be seen walking at a distance.'

He settled his tricorne on firmly, and held out his arm. Hers entwined and lay gently on his, and the electric soft touch of the side of her breast turned his arm into a rigid claw.

They moved off in sedate promenade. Magically, Ah Lee appeared, to follow at a respectful distance, her face blank but watchful. The touch of Sarah's arm on his was all fire and flowers; Kydd felt twenty feet tall.

He carefully matched his pace to hers, across the praca and into the streaming hubbub of the bazaars. As they walked, Sarah pressed closer to him, turning to speak with a flashing smile. He could manage only monosyllables in reply, but something of his happiness must have communicated itself, for she was plainly flattered. He wondered what sort of picture he made in the fine clothing he wore with such a woman on his arm, and lifted his chin in defiance. He might be a common sailor, but at the moment he was king of the world!

The road widened to a leafy avenue, and in the gathering dusk she stopped before an imposing mansion. Rearing up behind the building was a pagoda, smaller than the ones Kydd had seen in Canton, but more richly appointed. Lanterns gleamed discreetly at the entrance to the mansion; the whole smacked of careless wealth. Ah Lee scurried forward to open the door and waited inside.

Kydd's heart sank. It was self-evident that Sarah was of a different social order, but had been amused for the length of the afternoon. It had been kind of her, but he had to be realistic.

'Thank you, Mr Kydd. I did enjoy our tea this afternoon -you are wonderful company, you know.' Her eyes caught the soft lantern light; they seemed to steal into his soul. She held out her hand. It was bare, the glove had been removed.

'Er, the same f'r me, Miss Bullivant,' he blurted, and shook her hand warmly. A brief shadow flickered across her face. He caught the expression, then realised that probably what was wanted was a more formal exchange. He bowed deeply, but forgot to put a leg forward; the gesture ended awkwardly and he blushed.

He looked up again, fearing ridicule, but her face was set, albeit with the tiniest trace of vexation. She brightened. 'Do you know? We never did get to see the Sao Tiago. Do you think it would be very wicked of me to suggest that we met again tomorrow to remedy the omission?'

Kydd was thunderstruck.

'That is, if your duties on board your boat do allow,' she said.

'After noon, we are free t' step ashore,' Kydd stammered.

'Splendid!' Sarah exclaimed, clasping her hands. 'If we meet at two at Honrar Nunez's, perhaps I can prevail on Ah Lee to provide a picnic basket.'

Her mood was infectious and Kydd found himself grinning inanely, his hat passing from hand to hand.

'Very well - until two then, Mr Kydd,' she said decisively. A final radiant smile came that stabbed right through him, then she swept up the steps and into the mansion. The door closed soundlessly. For a moment he stared after her, then slowly turned to make his way back the short distance to the priest's residencia.

There was no way Kydd could think of returning on board so early, but equally he had no desire to join his friends at their roystering in the Solmar. He paced slowly along the seafront, conscious but uncaring that a lone sailor strolling past at this hour was an unusual sight.

Sarah wanted to see more of him. The simple fact kept repeating itself, raising his hopes to levels of fantasy he knew to be foolish. At the same time he was uncomfortably aware that her proximity and physical contacts, however slight, had awakened powerful urges that in no sense could be termed honourable. One thing was certain, next to Renzi he was nothing but an oaf. He cringed at the memory of his awkwardness and lack of conversation.

Suddenly resolved, he set out for the quay where the ship's boats secured — he would return aboard and resume his acquaintance with the literature.

On the berth deck there was only one occupant, still and silent at the table under a lanthorn glow. It was Renzi, reading. Kydd slid into the seat opposite. Renzi did not acknowledge his presence, continuing to read his slim volume with great concentration.

'At y'r books still, I find,' Kydd said lightly.

Renzi looked up balefully then resumed his concentration.

'The priest has tired of y'r company?' Kydd said, with more emphasis.

'He does have other duties,' Renzi said.

Kydd bit off a hot rejoinder and remembered his intention. 'Then I'd be obliged were you to suggest t' me one of our books,' he said, 'that would improve th' mind.'

Renzi laid down his Wordsworth. 'So Miss Bullivant might be agreeably impressed with your undoubted erudition?'

'So I might have th' chance of knowing somethin' more of this ragabash world.'

With a theatrical sigh, Renzi leant back. Then his expression softened. 'You are not — yet — a friend to logic, the rational course, but should you so desire then I have in our sea-chest an old and very dear piece by John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, which may yet persuade you.'

Sarah was wearing light blue, with many tiny bows sewn into the skirt of her frock, and a gay lace bonnet that was very fetching.

'M'lady!' Kydd smiled, rising to greet her. Nunez was silent, watchful as a bird.

'Kind sir!' Sarah replied, bobbing a curtsy with a radiant smile just for him. Kydd felt a rush of feeling that left him in confusion.

He collected himself and said casually, 'I rejoice t' see you in looks, Miss Bullivant, if th' validity of th' inference may be allowed as experientially rooted.' The bit about empiricism could come out later.

Nunez's eyebrows shot up. Sarah hesitated in puzzlement, then her expression cleared. 'You have been disputing with Nicholas,' she said, in an accusing tone, 'and now you mean to quiz me.'

Kydd couldn't keep it up, and a wide grin spread. She was caught by his infectious glee and returned the smile. They stepped out into the street, as prim a couple as any to be seen. There was little small-talk as they walked companionably together.

At Sao Tiago they stood on the ancient battlements and looked out to sea, to the islands and scattered ships at anchor, the bobbing sampans and serene junks. Sarah stood in front of Kydd, her bonnet held in her hands and looking outward in silence. Kydd stood close behind: the scent of her hair came up to him, the lines of her body inches from him.

As if it were some other he watched as his hands came up to take her shoulders, his head bent and he kissed the top of her hair very gently, her female scent briefly enclosing him. She froze; her hands came up slowly to touch his, still facing away, still silent.

Suddenly she turned round, but said in a quite practical tone, as if nothing had passed, 'I believe you would like to see a Chinese pagoda - Thomas.' Her eyes held his but moved past, over his shoulder. Kydd knew that something was happening, but was unsure, painfully aware of a thudding heart. 'Come,' she commanded, her grip on his arm a fierce imperative.

In a trance Kydd conveyed her back along the narrow streets the way they had come, feeling his masculinity uncomfortably, and longing with a fierce dread for what he knew must lie ahead.

Ah Lee opened the door to the mansion for them, and they entered arm in arm. 'Mr Tsoi journeys to Canton in the winter season,' Sarah said, with a peculiar air of defiance. 'The house is deserted.'

Kydd glanced at Ah Lee, whose expression was even more blank than usual. The house was easily the richest and most spacious that he had ever entered, but had an alien look and smell with a compelling exoticism.

'We will have our picnic in the pagoda,' Sarah said, and in halting Cantonese told Ah Lee, who looked shocked, but bowed once and withdrew.

Sarah steered Kydd through the vast house and out into the garden. Her arm still in his she chatted on, remarking on this Oriental bloom and that until they reached the door at the base of the pagoda. Kydd wondered what lay in the dark interior. Fiddling with the dark bronze latch, Sarah eased open the tiny door and held up her lantern.

Kydd started uncomfortably. In the flickering gleam he saw her face turn to him, and in his heightened state it seemed distorted, devilish, leading him on into an unknown perdition. 'Come on, silly!' She giggled at his hesitation, and ducking down, entered the pagoda.

Quite used to the low deckhead of a man-o'-war, Kydd followed. The golden light of the lantern steadied and strengthened away from the evening breezes, revealing mysterious forms and carvings on all sides. He stared uneasily, the odour of cedarwood and the dust of ages acrid and strong.

'These are Mr Tsoi's ancestors,' Sarah said, then girlishly tripped around a spiral passageway at the periphery. They circled madly in a dizzying whirl that left Kydd breathless. At the very top they finally stopped, laughing. The curved roof above provided a small room, which was barely furnished with a small table and some red straight-backed Chinese chairs on a dark carpet. Many richly ornamented hangings with elaborate writing characters decorated the walls.

Taking his hand, Sarah pulled him over to a window opening and looked at him in triumph. 'There, Thomas, is it not worth the climb to see this?' In the clear dusk the twinkling lights of Macao spread away over the hills, fairy-like from this height. The dense, wafting fragrance of the Orient enveloped him and Kydd knew he would never forget that night. The moment hung mysteriously, enigmatically.

'Ah Lee will not be long,' Sarah said, in her matter-of-fact way. 'She will not stay, though, she dislikes being here.' She drew him back inside, and they sat in the hard chairs, the lantern hooked to a beam overhead.

'Where do you come from, Thomas?' she said politely.

By degrees his hot desire subsided. He had misread the situation, and if he were to press his attentions now he would suffer a stinging rebuff. Yet she had already compromised her reputation by being alone with him - he wondered why she trusted him, then remembered that she had called him 'a nice man'; he didn't know if he should take this as a compliment or resent it.

The tapping of footsteps on wood began far below. 'Ah Lee,' said Sarah unnecessarily. The conversation tailed off until finally Ah Lee appeared with a big tray.

Kydd jumped to his feet to take the tray but was stopped by a warning cough and meaningful frown from Sarah. He sat down again in an awkward silence, while Ah Lee patiently laid out the table, her eyes surreptitiously flicking from one to the other. It was a Chinese meal, many small dishes holding hidden pleasures, and in the middle what looked like a flower vase.

'Fa tiu’ Sarah said, pouring an opaque liquid the colour of varnish into delicate porcelain cups. 'A Chinese wine, best served hot.' She smiled at him over her cup, and he raised his own to her and sipped. It was dense and cloying to his taste, but he felt the glow begin to spread.

Ah Lee left quietly; they heard her steps rapidly diminishing until once more they were alone together.

Sarah's eyes fixed on his face and she spoke levelly. 'Do you know, Thomas, that with half a thousand bachelors out here, there isn't one I'd call a man - not a real one who's big and strong, daring, handsome.'

Kydd stirred in his chair. Did this mean she really . . . 'Damn you, Thomas, do you make me beg?' The tone was shrill, and had an edge of hysteria.

'Sarah . . .' he began hoarsely, but she was the opposite side of the table and he hesitated.

She breathed deeply, then got abruptly to her feet, in the process sending the table and its contents to one side in an appalling crash of china. Kydd stood up in horror.

At first he could not respond to the passionate assault. The kiss was deep and hungry, her mouth taking his vio-lently, her body pressed into him without restraint. They swayed, clamped together. 'Thomas!' she whispered, drawing away slightly. 'My darling, sweet Thomas! My dear sailor man! Do you not know we're meant to be one, my love?' Her eyes were huge and lambent in the lantern's glow.

Kydd held her in an intoxicated trance, not daring to move. Her leg interposed slowly, caressing between his thighs in an excruciating sensual invasion; his hands in response moved down her back.

'Thomas — I've never been with a man,' she blurted. Her hands slid down his body and discovered his arousal. She gasped, her breath came fast and ragged; he lowered her gently to the floor.

As with a stranger's eyes he saw her tear off her shoes, and with a flood of sexual feeling he saw her pull up her dress to the white of knees and upper thighs. She lay on the carpet, writhing and vulnerable.

'Please, Thomas, my love, my love . . .' Her words were nearly incoherent but Kydd was not listening. He knelt between her legs, his head roaring at the sight of her under him, and he tore at his breeches. His hard manhood got in the way and in a rage of frustration he ripped the cloth.

They came together, hard, savagely, their bodies moving together in tidal surges of sexuality. The climax was explosive and uncontrollable. She clung to him while the spasms spent themselves. 'My darling, my dearest/ she murmured, over and over, clasping his body in hers with an immovable grip.

At last she released him; he drew apart and lay next to her. Wonderingly he gazed across at her, her body still racked by dying shudders, his own knowing only a beautiful, deep satisfaction. They lay there unmoving.

Kydd reached out for her, his arm across her bodice. There was something infinitely endearing in the sight of the trusting pale nakedness of her lower body, but he was becoming aware of the night's chill, cooling the hot wetness, and he clutched at his breeches.

Sarah stirred. 'My God’ she said brokenly. 'What have we done?'

Puzzled, Kydd propped himself on his elbows and tried to make out her expression.

'What have we done?' This time it was a harsh, tearing sound, sending cold shafts of fear into him.

'Sarah?' he asked gently.

She sat up suddenly, plucking feverishly at her dress. Her eyes showed their whites, like a frightened horse, and his unease grew. She lurched over to one of the straight-backed red chairs and sat with her head in her hands.

Kydd got to his feet and covered himself, but his breech flap hung down torn and useless. It seemed futile to pretend a dignity he no longer possessed, but he softly crossed over to her. Then the sobs began, quiet and endless. Clumsily he tried to put his arms around her, but she shrugged them off. The sobs turned to weeping; a hopeless, racking female sorrow.

In all the helplessness of a man he sat motionless, waiting. The evening turned to night, the lantern guttered low. He found his coat, put it around her and resumed his vigil. Long after the night noises of Macao outside had settled in slumber, he held her while the fitful weeping continued. The silent intervals between lengthened until at last it ceased.

'Thomas,' she said in a low voice.

'Yes?'

'It'll be all right if we love each other, won't it?' she said.

Kydd paused. His thoughts sped ahead. He had not even considered this, but then he realised that he could answer truthfully. 'Yes, Sarah, if we loved each other of course it would be all right.'

She sighed and reached for him. Her face in the dimness was a wet smear on his, but he kissed her dutifully, then gently disengaged to trim the lantern. The renewed light revealed wild disorder. Sarah stood the table on its legs again and began mechanically to pick up broken pieces of crockery and congealed food from the carpet. Kydd tried to help her.

The coolness of the night was now a hostile cold. Sarah shivered and moved to a corner of the room. Kydd found a tasselled covering and he brought it across to where she sat hugging her knees. In a touching gesture she held it open for him also. He snuggled up to her and found her feminine warmth roused him again. He dared not reveal it to her.

'I — we must plan,' she said, in a small voice.

Kydd made no move, taking refuge in silence.

'Macao is a small place, people will know,' she said.

'Only if Ah Lee tells 'em,' Kydd said stoutly. He saw no reason to panic.

She thought. 'She is discreet - she likes me. But Honrar Nunez, he would never lie.'

'And how would he know?' Kydd retorted.

'I - I could not lie to him, Thomas.'

There was no answer to that. They huddled stiffly together.

'There is a way — to save — my reputation,' Sarah said carefully. Kydd waited. 'Thomas, you shall marry me,' she announced. Thunderstruck, he stared at her. She was not looking at him but staring away dreamily into the distance. Her voice strengthened. 'I will leave Mr Tsoi's employ and you shall leave the sea, and we will set up house together, here in Macao.'

'Leave the sea?' Kydd couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.

'Of course, Thomas dear, you wouldn't want me married to a common sailor, now, would you?' He was shocked as much by the prim possessiveness in her tone as the content of what she was saying.

'But—'

'You will get used to being on the land again soon, dear.' There was now a hint of asperity. 'Tomorrow you shall see the Captain and tell him you are leaving the ship to settle down.'

'Sarah, we are at war. My duty—'

'Fiddlesticks! Young men go to war to protect those on the land, and now you are on the land. Leave it to the others to be heroes/ she said crossly.

There could be no reply to that at this time. He urgently needed to get away to think it through, to weigh the consequences of his act. 'Yes, Sarah/ he uttered, unable to muster a term of endearment. She looked at him doubtfully, but snuggled closer, her fingers twitching at his waistcoat.

In a dream-like state he made his way back to the boats. Half of his being exulted, sang with joy - the other half recoiled. When he had gone to the residencia to reclaim his sea-clothes Nunez had come to the door in a dressing-robe and had seen his state.

'Had an accident, fell down/ he had mumbled. The honrar had not said a word, but the atmosphere had been grim and reproving.

The sky in the east was just lightening when the last boat pulled listlessly for the Artemis. He was lucky: any later and he would have been put down as a straggler, his leave stopped. He went to his sea-chest to shift into his working clothes, heedless of the lewd comments from the others. They had spent their small means quickly, had little chance of further frolics, and were curious about Kydd. He didn't enlighten them.

Pulling his striped shirt down over his head he emerged to see Renzi the other side of the chest. His face was savage, but he said nothing.

That forenoon they were paired on the painting stage hanging over the ship's side. They were to scrape back the broad yellow stripe that ran along the line of the gunports. Kydd wanted badly to talk with his friend, to let him work his logic on the situation, to resolve the skeins of worry and to come to a sound conclusion. Renzi worked next to him, his triangular iron rasping at the paintwork in vicious strokes.

'I saw Sarah last night,' he tried.

'And so?' Renzi replied acidly.

'We - we came to an understanding.'

Renzi's strokes ceased.

'Well, that is to say, she, er . . .' he mumbled. 'So you didn't have an understanding,' Renzi said sarcastically.

Kydd flushed, but persevered: 'It's not yet settled,' he said lamely.

'And you want it settled. Am I to understand you wish me to advise you how best to entrap Miss Bullivant?'

A dull resentment rose in Kydd. This was his particular friend with whom he had shared so much, and who when needed was proving an obstinate enemy.

'Last night Sarah and I — coupled. She wants t' marry me.'

Renzi's scraper tinkled once on the ship's side and splashed daintily into the muddy water below. His face went white, and he stared at Kydd.

'You careless lubbers!' shouted an angry figure at the deckline above. 'Show a bit o' life an' get a move on!'

Kydd resumed his scrapes half-heartedly, unwilling to look at Renzi.

'I — can only tender my felicitations.' Renzi's voice was distant, controlled.

Kydd said nothing, but scraped on. After a while he heard Renzi catch a replacement scraper before he, too, resumed the work.

'Thing is, I'm not sure o' the tightness of it all,' Kydd continued.

The strokes ceased again. 'Surely it's simple enough,'

Renzi replied; his voice was tightly controlled, but no longer venomous.

'No, Nicholas, she wants me to swallow th' anchor and go ashore - for good 'n' all,' Kydd said warmly. 'Well, why not, pray?'

Kydd thought and could not come up with other than the truth. 'I've found m'self since I've been t' sea, and don't hanker after the longshore life.'

Renzi bit his lip. "The nub of it, I believe,' he began, with a slight tremor to his words, 'is whether you love her enough.'

For long moments Kydd hesitated. 'I don't know.'

'You must know.'

Kydd faced his friend. 'That is th' point, d'ye see?' His earnest expression made Renzi drop his eyes. 'I lay with the woman, I must own, but I cannot in all truth say before you - that I love her.'

The stage swung with a small movement of the ship. Renzi sat motionless.

'So where does m' duty lie?' Kydd asked.

For a long time Renzi mechanically picked at the sea-faded paintwork. The problem was not of a class that could yield readily to logic. And without the confidence and comfort of solid reasoning at his back he felt diminished. 'Duty,' he admitted finally, 'is a stern mistress.' He was uncomfortably aware that he had been overborne by emotion in the last few days, and now he was failing his friend. There was such an entanglement of ramifications in this problem, rooted in society, personal feelings, obligation — and his own reactions.

He pulled himself together. 'My dear friend, in this matter, alas, I cannot help. It distresses me, but I would rather not betray your trust with glib emollients or superficial observations. I am sorry, but . . .'

Kydd nodded once and turned back to his work.

Instead of hurrying ashore at noon, Kydd slowly climbed to the bare foretop. He could be sure of being undisturbed there, and the clean, seamanlike expanse spoke to him of other things. He sat with his back against the foremast and gazed unseeingly across the anchorage.

He had lain with Sarah: that was the solid fact at issue. The question was, did he therefore owe her a moral obligation? She was a warm, passionate woman who in marriage would see to his needs and more — that was clear. But marriage, he intuitively realised, might involve more than that. A woman needed security and stability; his mind shied at the images of domesticity that this idea generated, the dreary round of politeness, social calls, suffocating conformity. And love. For some reason she had been attracted to him. But he sensed the emotional power that ruled her actions and was instinctively repelled. He himself could never relinquish control like that. He sighed, deeply. In all this, he knew that he must do what was right for Sarah, not himself. His sense of personal honour and moral duty ran deep and true — he would not be able to live with it for the rest of his life should he make a selfish choice.

On deck Cundall stared upwards, trying to make out what Kydd was doing. 'Foretop ahoy!' he shouted.

There was no reply. Cundall took another pull at his bottle. 'Kydd, yer sad lobcock, you mopin' after some syebuck biddy? You—'

From the other side of the bitts, Renzi appeared, his eyes murderous. 'Stow it!' he snapped. Rowley emerged aft on to the quarterdeck. The drunken shouts had been audible over the whole deck.

Cundall squared up to Renzi. 'An' what's it ter you?'

Renzi's fist took Cundall in the stomach, doubling him up. The second, a moment later, hammered the chin, straightening Cundall before he crumpled to the deck. Renzi stood over him, his chest heaving, then moved back to the forebitts and resumed his vigil. Rowley deliberately turned and gazed out over the stern.

In the foretop, Kydd pondered on, oblivious. So what was his duty? To Sarah, that was now obvious. So he should marry her and give up the sea? If that was what she wanted. But was this decision the best one for her? What if he could not give her love, security, stability? He knew, too, from his previous experience of exile from the sea that he could never counterfeit happiness in a land-based existence, and he would end up the poorest of companions for her.

No, this was impossible, she deserved better than that. She deserved a lover who would be able to provide her with the solid, respectable marriage she needed. He felt a strange pang at the thought of another kissing her, possessing her, but the conclusion was inescapable. He felt the lifting of a dreadful cloud. In her best interests, he must be strong for both of them and refuse her. It would be hard, but any day the frigate could be released to take up her mission of war and they would part. Kydd tested the decision every way he could, suspicious that it was based on hidden motives, but it held firm. Therefore he would implement it, see it through without flinching.

Renzi saw Kydd rise, look once at the shore then descend the shrouds briskly. He busied himself at the bitts until Kydd reached the deck. 'Do I take it that you are in possession of a decision?' Renzi enquired.

'I am,' Kydd said, his chin lifting slightly. 'May I know?'

'I am to refuse her, I believe.'

Renzi looked at the deck, doubting his ability to control his emotions. His own recent reflections had led him to place their friendship out of reach of baser human urges, and he would have suffered much pain were he now to lose it.

Kydd approached the residencia with heavy but resolute steps. He was unsure what he would say to Sarah, but he was certain of his decision, and was prepared to bear any consequences arising from it.

Nunez frowned and smoothed his robe. 'My child . . .' he began.

'Where is Sarah?'

'She has a message for you. She is at present indisposed, but begs leave of a visit from you at her home.' 'Then I shall go t' her.'

The priest stood silently, watching, but Kydd did not change into shore breeches and buckled shoes. Wearing the familiar short blue jacket and white trousers of a naval seaman he made his way to the mansion. Ah Lee answered his knock and looked in astonishment at his appearance. Behind her, Sarah appeared and seemed taken aback also.

'Thank you, Ah Lee, I will receive Mr Kydd in the drawing room.'

She had dark rings around her eyes, and was dressed simply. The drawing room was large and forbidding, its dusty stillness at odds with Kydd's lively sea rig.

'Thomas, why do you not dress with more circumspection?' she asked.

Kydd said nothing, holding his sailor's hat before him and gazing at her seriously.

She seemed to pick up something of the gravity of his visit and straightened in her chair. 'Nevertheless, it was kind in you to visit.'

'Sarah, I don't believe it would be a good thing were we t' marry,' Kydd said, looking at her directly.

Only the slightest tremble of her hand betrayed her feelings. 'Stuff and nonsense, Thomas dear. You will soon get used to the land, you'll see,' she said, in a feminine way going straight to the heart of the matter.

'I've tried the longshore life, Sarah, and it don't agree with me—'

'Doesn't agree with you? Then consider me. Do you propose to take me out on the sea to live?' Her voice had an edge to it.

Kydd looked dogged. 'I would be a poor shab of a husband were I t' give up the sea and take up land ways.'

Her eyes grew hard. 'This is all a nonsense, Thomas. Other men can find it in them to settle down properly, why can't you?'

He didn't reply at first, wishing he had Renzi's powers to render with precision thoughts into words. 'It wouldn't be fair to you, Sarah. You deserve better 'n me.'

Her eyes filled. 'You simpleton, Thomas. It's you I want - need! You're a man, a strong and wonderful man, the only real man I've ever known.' She hurried across and knelt by his chair, imploring with her eyes. 'My love! We could be so happy together, you and I. Think of it.'

Kydd felt his own eyes pricking with tears, but he sat rigid. 'No, Sarah. It wouldn't be right, not fair for you.'

Leaping to her feet she screamed down at him, 'Not fair?

Not fair for me? What about me? Why don't you ask me what I think is fair?' She stood over him, the urgency of her passion beating at him.

He looked at her sadly. Her emotion broke and she sank to the floor in a paroxysm of tears. Kydd made no move to go to her, letting waves of sorrow course through him, choking him with their burden of grief. He stood up. There was no point in prolonging the moment — the sooner it was past the better.

She heard the movement, stopped weeping and glared at him. 'You've ruined me. Do you hear that? Ruined me.'

Kydd looked at her wordlessly, tenderly. The tears burned and stung. She glowered. He hesitated, then turned for the door.

'If you go through that door, I — I shall never see you again.' He paused but did not look back. 'Never!'

He stumbled forward. 'Thomas!' she screamed.

He opened the door and floundered out on to the street. He could still hear her despairing cries inside as he lurched away, lost in the most acute desolation it was possible to bear.

His shipmates left him well alone. Renzi squeezed his shoulder, once, then dropped his hand, unable to find a word to say about what was in his heart.

The first messages came, pleading, begging, pitiful. Kydd read each one with a set face and steadfastly remained aboard. Renzi did what he could: he went ashore, but Nunez was 'indisposed' and the door of the residencia would not open for him.

Later a small figure could be seen at the boat landing, but the Captain had strong views about women aboard. The figure remained staring out and was still there when the cold night drew in.

For Kydd time hung heavy and bleak, but he had resolved to take the consequences of his decision without complaint. The story of his time of trial spread, and in their warm, generous manner the sailors found little services they could do for him, rough expressions of sympathy and comradeship.

Next morning, the Captain arrived aboard in a tearing hurry and almost instantiy a fo'c'sle gun banged out and the Blue Peter broke at the fore topmast head. Smiles were to be seen everywhere. They were under sailing orders.

Kydd couldn't take his eyes off the lonely figure still on the quay. What agonies of mind would she endure when she learnt that the ship and he would soon be a memory in an empty anchorage? At least it was now over.

'Haaaaands to unmoor ship! Haaands to make sail!' The pealing of boatswain's calls cut into the cool morning air, and the ship burst into life. All the well-remembered duties of a ship outward bound, the tang of sea air, the blessed imperatives of good seamanship.

At the larboard cathead Kydd found the strop and ranged the fish tackle ready for the big bower anchor. When he looked again at the landing place, the figure was no longer there. The anchor was won from the pale mud of the Pearl river, and Stirk clapped on to the tackle with him. Far above, Renzi and others cast loose the gaskets of the topsails.

'Tom, what's this, mate?' Doud, from his position astride the cathead, pointed aft. A sampan with two passengers in it was overhauling them from their quarter. There was no mistaking the occupants - Sarah and Ah Lee.

Kydd didn't know whether to cry or urge them on. Every so often one of the figures stood, swaying dangerously in the little craft and waving furiously. They were coming up fast, but the topsails on the ship tumbled down from their yards and were sheeted home with a will. The frigate bowed slightly under the bellying sails and immediately the ripple of a bow wave started.

For a time, the sampan kept with them, but as the trim frigate caught the wind, the ripple in the bows turned to a chuckle and the little boat fell frantically astern. The ship now set courses: the big driving sails flapped and banged as they dropped, but when they were set Artemis showed her true breeding. She lay to the winds and foamed ahead.

Kydd took one last look at the tiny figure in the sampan and sank into dumb misery. The lump in his throat was choking him, and he could hardly see.

Artemis gathered speed for the open sea.

Chapter 9

‘I allow that it was my decision, but it was th' right one, - and I'm man enough I can stand the consequences,' Kydd said firmly. His eyes were dark-rimmed but there was an air of tenacious resolve about him.

With the coast of China a diminishing grey blur astern, Renzi noted that Kydd had his eyes set ahead, to seaward. He deeply admired his friend's strength of mind, but he knew there would remain a sorrow that would take a long time to pass.

'But I beg you will not talk any more of it,' Kydd added. Renzi nodded, and looked out ahead also. 'It seems that we are on our way home, shipmate,' he said regretfully. 'Yes.'

'Back to the war.' 'Yes,' Kydd said again.

'Some would say that this means prize money once more, and liberty ashore in England to spend it.'

Kydd turned to Renzi, who saw with relief a very small smile. 'Aye, Nicholas, and you will not see y'r Peking.'

Renzi laughed. 'True enough. I had my heart set on meeting at least one si fu at the Ching court.' But he had learnt there was no chance at all of that. Barbarians would always be held at arm's length by the narrow, suspicious Chinese.

'We're to touch at Manila on our way back, I believe.'

'It would appear to be a motion to take advantage of our presence in these waters, to show the Spanish that we have the means to defend our interests if need be.'

'But we're not at war with them?'

'Not so far as I know — and the opportunity is too good to miss, sending a first-class fighting ship to remind them . . .' His words were cut off by the urgent rattling of a drum at the main hatch aft.

'Quarters!' Renzi exclaimed. However, it could only be an exercise. It was typical of Powlett to put the ship back in martial order before they had even sunk the land astern.

Stirk looked up as Kydd clattered down the fore hatchway and hastened to his gun. 'You, Kydd,' he growled. 'Cap'n wants th' gun captain to choose another second ter be trained up at each gun. I choose you.'

Kydd's stare relaxed to a surprised smile. Stirk did no one favours where his gun was concerned; he obviously thought Kydd the best man for the job. Kydd fell back to the rear of the gun, next to Stirk but to one side.

'No, mate, yer captain fer now,' Stirk said, unslinging his gunner's pouch and giving it to Kydd. He stepped aside.

Kydd took position, immediately behind the fat breech of the gun. It felt very different to know that the whole elaborate ballet of the gun crew would now take its time from him. The gun crew returned his gaze with differing expressions - boredom, seriousness, interest — but never contempt or distrust. Renzi regarded him gravely, with the tiniest ghost of a smile. Kydd's nervousness settled. He glanced sideways at Stirk.

'Go on, cully, take charge then,' Stirk snapped.

'Cast loose!' Kydd ordered. After Stirk's tough growl, his own voice seemed weak and thin, but the muzzle was obediently cut free and the crew took up their positions. Kydd looked again at Stirk, but the man stood impassive, his arms folded. Kydd turned back to the gun. Ah, yes, test the gunlock. He inspected the big lock on the top of the breech; the gunflint did not move in its clamp and the hammer eased back to full cock on its greased steel with a heavy firmness.

He yanked at the lanyard secured to the gunlock. It gave positively and, with a lethal-sounding steely click, a suitably fat spark jumped across. His confidence increased as his orders had the gun crew sweating at their tasks, rammer and sponge flailing as they hauled the heavy iron beast in and out in simulated battle.

At stand easy, his crew sat wearily on deck, their backs to the carriage, gossiping, just as he had done not so very long ago.

'That'll do, Tom,' Stirk said, a glimmer of approval just discernible. 'Now listen ter me . . .' There followed a stream of advice, given in gruff monosyllables, ranging from using a thumb on the vent-hole to tell from the air when the cartridge was fully rammed, to firing just as the deck began dipping on the downward part of a roll to ensure that the ball would smash home directly into the enemy hull.

Kydd wiped his hands on his trousers. Now they would try three rounds at a mark - his own gun, pointed and served by him.

'Load with cartridge!' It was his first live order.

The powder monkey already had his box containing the cartridge and Renzi helped himself to the grey flannel cylinder. He placed it carefully in the muzzle and the double-ended rammer was twirled to send it down the bore.

There was a definite jet of air up the cold iron of the vent-hole, which Kydd felt with his thumb as the cartridge approached the breech end. When this stopped he held up an arm. Renzi and the others bent to their wad and shot, but Kydd had no time to watch. He had his pricking wire into the priming hole, stabbing down until he was quite sure he had pierced the cartridge, then out with a quill priming tube and into its passageway to the main charge.

A little priming powder in the pan of the gunlock to catch the spark and now the piece was loaded and primed, a silent mass of black iron waiting only for his personal tug on the lanyard to bellow death into the outside world. His palms felt moist; the eyes of the others were on him as he bent to squint along the muzzle of the gun - there were no sights. These ship-smashers were designed for close-in work, but Black Jack Powlett was merciless with those who threw away their shot by not placing their fire precisely where it would do the most good.

The sea hissed past. The waves seemed higher and more lively viewed through the gunport. They were close-hauled on the starboard tack, under easy sail, which had their side of the gundeck to weather and therefore higher. Kydd searched about the grey sea wilderness for the mark, a beef cask and flag.

Nothing. He thrust past his crew to peer through the port. Still nothing but a vast extent of sea and swell out to the horizon. He sensed Stirk next to him. Almost immediately

Stirk pointed. Kydd followed the line of his arm and far, far away he caught a red flicker. 'No!' he gasped. The red flicker came and went, hidden and then revealed again by the lively swell.

'No more'n a mile,' grunted Stirk. Kydd's experience of battle had been of the order of a few hundred yards at the most. Powlett was not going to make it easy.

'Point your guns!' Rowley drawled. They would track the target until given the order to open fire.

Kydd took one last look at the mark and resumed his place behind the breech, looking down the long muzzle at the bearing where he knew it to be. He pointed to the left-hand side of the gun. Wong levered the handspike, his body glistening with sweat. He heaved at the truck, skidding the gun round so that the muzzle bore more towards the mark.

Kydd squinted down the gun — it was impossible! The gentle heaving of the frigate was enough to send the gun pointing skyward at one instant and then blankly at the sea the next. And the distant mark shot past the questing muzzle this way and that, as out of reach as a buzzing fly. He swore in exasperation.

Stirk eased him aside and sighted down the gun. 'Not bad, be half,' he grunted, 'but yer've forgotten yer has a quoin.' Muscles bunching, he worked at the wedge under the breech, which moved the muzzle up or down. Satisfied, he stepped back. 'Has a look now, mate.'

Kydd found the mark and noted that the muzzle now swept above and below the mark by equal amounts. But the ship was moving, and the mark was already off line. Boldly, Kydd pointed to Wong again, gesturing with small downward movements as he had seen Stirk do to indicate minor changes. The gun came on target by jerks and he could see that if he could time it well, he had a chance.

The ship sailed on steadily, and he tracked carefully. Kydd took the opportunity of estimating when he would fire, that brief hesitation between triggering the gunlock, the priming catching, and the powder charge going off would translate to an astonishing sweep of movement at the muzzle.

There was a distant shout then Rowley snapped, 'Number one gun — fire!'

Seconds ticked by and then the peace was split by an aggressive bang from forward followed by gunsmoke rolling out a hundred yards or more. It was immediately blown back by the stiff wind and the gundeck was darkened by the acrid cloud. It cleared quickly and the distant plume of the fall of shot duly showed, but way to one side.

The smell of fresh powder smoke was pleasing to Kydd's senses — it was manly, keen and spoke of duty. He kept the brutish gun muzzle squarely on the tiny red flag and waited resolutely for his turn.

The next vicious blang and rolling gunsmoke came from the gun next to him. He tensed. The smoke cleared and a splash appeared behind the mark and seventy feet to one side, a good shot at this range.

'Number five gun - fire!'

At the full extent of the lanyard Kydd sighted down the muzzle. It rose slowly to a wave, so he waited. It began to fall and he was teetering on the point of firing when some seaman's fine instinct made him hesitate. Sure enough a smaller, playful wave countered the first and the muzzle lifted slightly before resuming its downward sweep. He gave the lanyard a firm pull and after a brief hesitation his piece obediently thundered forth. Kydd arched his body and the maddened beast crashed to the rear in recoil, sending towering masses of gunsmoke downrange.

'Stop yer vent!' He heard Stirk's shout dimly through ringing ears, and remembered that he had to stop the flow of eroding gases through the vent-hole. It was easily enough done, but he wanted to know where his shot had gone. Staring at the jauntily bobbing flag he willed his ball on. Magically a plume rose up, almost dead in line but sadly short.

'Blast me eyes, but that was well done, mate,' Stirk said in admiration.

Kydd looked at him in disbelief. His shot so far was the furthest away.

'Never mind th' range — yer ball will take 'im on the ricochet. Not easy ter lay 'er true like that!'

With a swelling pride, Kydd stepped back and rasped, 'Well, let's see some heavy in it, then, y' pawky lubbers!'

'Yair — can't come soon enough fer me, Ol' England.' Cundall smoothed his shining black hair and stared morosely back at the tiny mirror, the only one the mess possessed.

Kydd was sitting on his sea-chest to allow Renzi to finish tying off the end of his pigtail, now a quite respectable length again. At sea he wore it clubbed. The gun practice had broken the spell of his morbidity and he had managed to surround his sorrow with limits that enabled him to function on a daily basis.

'You're quiet, Ned,' Kydd said, noticing Doud's unusual reserve.

Doud looked up. 'What's ter say? All th' time we're swannin' around out this godforsaken side o' the world, some other frigate is a-snappin' up the prizes — sooner we're back 'n' doing what comes natural, better fer all.'

Busily at work on a square wooden plate chopping herbs, Quashee unexpectedly spoke up. 'Yer may get yer wish earlier than you thinks, Ned.'

'How so, yer big bastard?' Doud said, instantly curious.

Quashee smiled. 'Has yer thought? We're touchin' at Manila. What if while we've bin away the Dons have gone ter war on the Frogs' side?'

Cundall sneered. 'Then we gets ter take a few dozen fishin'-boats an' half a dozen merchant packets — which in course we can't take with us. Wake up ter yerself, yer ninny.'

Quashee's smile grew broader. 'Then yer ain't heard of. . .'

'. . . the Manila Galleon!' finished Petit loudly. All looked at him in astonishment. 'He's in the right of it, mates!' he said, his face animated. 'Fat an' fair, sails once a year from Acapulkee in Mexico fer Manila, stuffed to the gunnels with all the gold 'n' silver they rips fr'm their colonies.' On all sides around the mess table, eyes grew big. Petit continued, with great satisfaction, 'An' here she comes, sailin' in, all unsuspectin' that there's a state o' war, which we o' course are obliged to tell 'em.'

Happy babbling broke out, but it was interrupted by a shout at the hatchway. 'Pass the word fer Thomas Kydd — Able Seaman Kydd, ahoy!'

Kydd rose. 'Aye!'

'Cap'n Powlett passes the word fer Thomas Kydd!'

The mess fell silent and stared at Kydd. It was unusual to the point of incredible that the Captain would directly notice any of so lowly a station. Kydd's mind raced. As far as he was aware he had done nothing wrong and, anyway, daily discipline was the business of others. He hurried to the quarterdeck. 'The Captain will see you in his cabin/ Party said sharply.

Sliding down the hatchway ladder, Kydd went aft to the broad cabin. Outside was a marine sentry. Kydd knocked carefully and heard an indistinct reply, which he took to be 'Enter.'

Powlett was at his desk, as usual without a wig - he never wore one at sea. His close-cropped hair lent intensity to his demeanour.

The cabin was neat and Spartan, the only concession to humanity a miniature of a woman on the bulkhead and below it another of an angelic child. The rest of the room was dominated by the squat bulk of a pair of six-pounders and a deeply polished chart table. Kydd stood before his captain, hat in hand, and waited.

'Thank you, Kydd,' Powlett said, finishing writing. He jabbed the quill back into the ink-pot and leant back. 'I have a problem,' he said, in a tone that suggested problems didn't annoy him for long.

'Sir.'

'You may know we lost eleven men at Macao, seven by sickness.'

Kydd did not know: he had had problems of his own at the time.

'We can't replace men so easily in this part of the world.' He looked directly at Kydd. 'I've a mind to rate you quartermaster's mate. What do ye think of that?'

Nothing had been further from his mind. And now - it was undreamt of! He would be a petty officer, admittedly one of the most junior aboard, but he had achieved a precious step up, he had . . .

'Well?'

'I'd like it fine, sir’ he stammered.

'Then you are so rated. The first lieutenant will attend to your watch and station.' Powlett fixed Kydd with flinty eyes. 'You are a fine seaman - I can see this, which is why I gave you your step. You have a future, but you can be disrated just as easily. See that you are zealous in your work and stay away from the bottle, and you may have no fear of that.'

'Aye aye, sir!' Kydd said.

Quartermaster's mate - Petty Officer Kydd! He left the first lieutenant's cabin in a haze of joy. It was only a matter of stepping into a sick man's shoes, he rationalised, but his inner self smugly replied, Who cares?

Then Sarah's image flashed before him, dampening his mood. He felt for her pain. Perhaps one day they could meet again in some other way ...

Slowly his thoughts refocused. Whatever the reason, he was now rated a petty officer. His main duty would be on the quarterdeck, as mate to the quartermaster who had the conn under the officer in command — responsibility for the helm and helmsmen. A quartermaster owed his loyalty to the sailing master, who was probably the most sea professional of all aboard.

Kydd wondered if it had been his skill at the wheel that had won him the post. He enjoyed his trick at the helm, feeling the waves trying playfully to slap the vessel off course and the live vibration of the sea transmitted up through the tiller-ropes, seeing the length of deck curving in at the bow far ahead of the helm, then gently rising and falling under his urging, the whole a connected symphony of motion. He sighed, and rejoined his mess.

* * *

'Quartermaster's mate - that makes you a petty officer,' said Petit seriously. 'Yes, it does.'

'Then you'll be shiftin' your mess tonight?' Petit asked.

Although new-rated, his status entitled him to join one of the senior messes, which were right aft and screened off by canvas. There were only three quartermaster's mates aboard so together they wouldn't make a mess, but he could join the quarter-gunners, the carpenter's crew, or even the elite captains of the tops.

'No, mate, I think I'll stay,' he said uneasily.

'Yer a petty officer, Kydd,' Cundall repeated. The others remained silent, looking at him gravely. Slowly it dawned on him. As a petty officer, he had authority over every one of them including Petit. He couldn't stay as a friend and at the same time do his duty by the ship. And it was asking too much to expect them to treat him as an equal when he wasn't. 'Yair, have to move, I guess.'

Renzi was nowhere to be seen, and Kydd felt a chill of loneliness. He nodded to Petit and said, 'Be on m' way by th' last dog-watch.'

'Luck, cuffin,' said Doud, softly.

Aft, next to the boatswain's cabin, was the screened-off mystery of the quarter-gunners' mess. He scratched on the hanging flap — a face, irritated and querulous, poked out. 'What?' it said.

Kydd blurted out his situation.

'Not 'n here, yer don't.' The face disappeared. The carpenter's crew had their mess snugly fashioned for themselves and did not want another intruding. An idler's mess — the cooper, sailmaker's mates and the like - offered doubtfully, but they were not watchkeepers and their perspectives of life aboard were quite different. Kydd felt he must decline. He felt rootless, an outcast, much as he had felt when he had been thrust aboard his first ship as a pressed man.

'What're you about, mate?' Stirk's voice behind made him jump. 'Bin lookin' fer you half the dog-watch,' he said, looking at Kydd curiously. 'Gotta get yer gear shifted afore pipe down hammocks, or . . .' He pulled aside the canvas screen to a nearby mess and motioned Kydd in. 'This here's Tom Kydd, frien's, quartermaster's mate, just rated.'

Kydd caught his breath. Around the mess table were petty officers, men he had learnt to fear and respect. They were the backbone of the Navy, hard men in charge of fighting tops, afterguard, topmen - the elite captains of 'part-of-ship'. They stared up at him, some with narrowed eyes, others with a shrewd wariness. 'Good t' know ye,' Kydd said, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. He had no idea how to address these men, his claim to be a petty officer, one of them, now seeming a flimsy pretence. They did not answer.

Stirk went on, An' this Kydd is the juggins 'oo sees a merchant hooker in a blow on 'er way ter Davy Jones. Gets 'imself streamed off in a raft from a ship-o'-the-line, jus' cos he thinks ter save 'er.'

There was an interested stirring. 'Did yer?'

'Yair. But got nothing out've it later, the shysters,' Kydd said carefully.

A tall, dark man, whom Kydd recognised as captain of the maintop, grunted and said, 'Well, get yer dunnage then, Kydd — seems yer movin' in 'ere with us.'

He felt a jet of exultation, then turned to Stirk. 'You . . .'

'Quarter-gunner, jus' rated up.' He thrust the canvas flap aside and called back over his shoulder, 'An' we got one other Royal Billy in with us — cap'n of the mizzentop.'

Kydd wondered who it could be, but time was short and he had his gear to shift. When he got to his old mess there were few left at the table, but with a pang he saw Renzi, standing over their shared sea-chest.

'Nicholas - I, well . . .'

Renzi looked at him for a long moment. Then he spoke. 'Bear a fist, y' poxy lubber!' he snapped, in a very good approximation of a petty officer's impatient growl.

Kydd could hardly believe his ears. He glowed with pleasure. 'You?'

'It seems I have been raised to the felicity of captain of the mizzentop,' Renzi continued, in a more normal tone, 'and thus might aspire to more congenial quarters.'

The mess was more snug than Kydd thought possible. Instead of being lost in the gloom of the open mess deck, the lanthorn light now shone cosily on the inside of the canvas partitions, revealing on the forward one a painted scene of a furious battle at sea in which Artemis was easily recognisable, and on the after one several mermaids combing each other's hair. The racks of mess-traps were more elaborate, and Kydd guessed that in other things there would be similar improvements. He slung his ditty bag with the others along the ship's side and took his seat.

'Quartermaster's mate — which watch are youse then, Kydd?' the tall dark man asked.

'Starbowlines, and it's Tom,' he said warily.

'Crow, Isaac Crow,' the man said. 'Cap'n of the maintop. So that'd be Hallison, then, Joshua Hallison who's yer quartermaster.' He chuckled. 'Yer've picked a right taut hand o' th' watch there, cully.'

Another petty officer Kydd knew was Mullion, larboard captain of the foretop. He had reason to — Mullion was never without his colt, a braided rope's end, which he used impartially on his men in the belief that it was the undoubted origin of their markedly faster times. He looked at Kydd steadily, then nodded and grunted, 'Jeb.'

The canvas flap was thrown aside and a short but sharp-faced man entered and crashed down the grog kid on the table, taking his place on one side. Kydd knew him only from afar as one whose temper was best avoided.

'Parry, God rot his bones!' he said in a grating voice, and noticed Kydd. 'Who're you?' There was a visceral challenge in the tone.

'Kydd - Tom Kydd, quartermaster's mate o' the starb'd watch,' he said, and felt colour rising. 'An' who are you, then?' he said boldly.

The man paused, fixing him with colourless eyes. 'Haynes.'

'Yer glass, Kydd,' reminded Crow, holding out his hand over the grog monkey. Kydd had his old pot ready, then remembered that petty officers had the privilege of taking their rum neat, not diluted to grog.

A glass was returned full of the dark mahogany liquid, the powerful odour of rum heavy on the air. Kydd raised it in a general salute and swallowed. The liquor was pungent and strong.

As they drank, Kydd began to feel the pattern of comradely warmth of his new mess. Crow asked him more about his time in a line-of-battle ship, and others put in their contribution. The lanthorn was trimmed up, and meal-time conviviality set in.

Just as the food arrived, Renzi appeared, silent and watchful. 'Renzi,' said Stirk briefly. 'Tie-mate o' Kydd's,' he added, referring to the service close friends did for each other in turn — plait and tie off the pigtail.

'Yeah, heard of 'im, Toby,' grated Haynes. 'With yer when you boarded the Cttqyong through the gun-ports.' He gave the smallest of nods to Renzi, but impaled him with his eyes.

Renzi sat, but remained quiet.

'Got a headpiece on 'im, 'e 'as,' Stirk added. 'We listens ter what 'e 'as to say, like.'

The table held its reserve — a sea-lawyer was not a popular character to be.

Mullion broke the quiet. 'So it's Manila - what's this, then?' The question was plainly directed at Renzi, and the others kept their silence.

Renzi's half-smile appeared. 'We show the Dons we have the force to protect our interests, in the event a good plan while we have a prime frigate in the area.' He flicked a glance at Haynes. 'The Spanish are a proud race, but they have let this part of their empire decline. We will have no difficulty in impressing them here. But if we are already at war . . .'

'The Manila Galleon - we knows about that,' Crow said, but in a not unfriendly tone. He opened the door across the racks at the ship's side and drew out crockery and pewter spoons.

'Then as we have no strategic interest in the place, we will quietly withdraw.'

Haynes's eyes narrowed. 'Yer sayin' . . .'

'If we take the town, then garrison, defend it — to what purpose? What have we won? What are we defending? There is no sense in this.'

Crow looked over at Haynes with a smirk. 'He's right, an' all.'

Kydd was happy that no one had commented on Renzi's cultured accent. But he had his misgivings. How would Renzi fare shouting orders to his men in the mizzentop? And for that matter, he himself?

Hallison was a dour man whom Kydd remembered as having a short way with helmsmen who failed to measure up. He looked at Kydd doubtfully. 'Now, lad, your main dooty is the helm, but there's a mort more t' being a quartermaster.' He automatically looked up to the weather leech of the mainsail, just beginning to catch the first of the weak dawn sun. 'Steer small, damn you,' he growled at the helmsman, and turned back to Kydd. 'All kind o' things, fr'm stowing the ballast to leadin' the boarders who are cuttin' out an enemy, 'cos we're the ones who always know how, see?' He stared directly at Kydd.

'Aye, Mr Hallison.'

At that moment sailors began to appear on deck, some bleary-eyed, others surly. Kydd knew very well what this meant but never again would he be expected to join them in scrubbing the deck.

'After end o' the quarterdeck,' Hallison told him. Kydd started; then recollected himself and strode to the taffrail.

He glared about him but inwardly he was flinching. 'Get a move on, you heavy-arsed dogs,' he snarled. At the resentful looks of the sailors he realised that perhaps this was going too far. The men stood in front of him, shuffling their feet, resigned. 'You,' he snapped, picking one at random, 'wash-deck hose.' The man didn't say anything but went forward obediently. 'Sand,' he said to another. The holystones were issued and he set the line of men abreast the helm to work their way aft to the stern.

'Get those men going, th' maudling old women.' Parry stomped on deck: he was in a bad mood, and wanted to take it out on the men.

Kydd had seen it before. He called, 'Parry!' in a low voice to the men, who took his signal and feigned fear at Kydd as they worked hard with their holystones.

Parry glowered at the group of men who knelt amid the cold gushing water and gritty sand. At Kydd's questioning gaze he turned away to stamp forward.

Kydd knew he was under eye from Hallison, and conscientiously applied his men, knowing the little tricks they could be up to so well himself.

When they had reached the full extent of the deck, Hallison nodded and waited while the swabbers did their work drying the deck before calling Kydd over. 'Good. I don't hold with startin' m'self - you'll do.' Kydd couldn't conceive of wielding a rope's end on good men either. He beamed, but Hallison went on, 'Cap'n will be after yer skin, lad. He wants all his petty officers in blue jackets 'n' buttons when they're on deck.' He looked meaningfully at Kydd's striped shirt and knotted kerchief.

Kydd nodded. Hallison glanced again at the weather leech and said, 'Go 'n' have some breakfast - be sure an' relieve me at one bell.'

It was greatly satisfying, the way that seamen gave way to him at the sight of his blue jacket and twinkling brass buttons. His confidence soared as he bounded up the ladder to relieve Hallison. He had skipped his burgoo and hard-tack, quickly stitching the buttons with their stout anchor to his best and only blue jacket. He would not be found wanting in any particular.

Hallison raised his eyebrows in surprise at Kydd's transformation, but did not comment. He crossed to the binnacle and reached below for the log-board. Opening it out he referred to the chalked entries. He looked at the hanging traverse board to check that it agreed and turned to Kydd. 'Course sou'-east b' east, good breeze fr'm the nor'-west. Mr Party 'as the deck, Evans on the wheel. You has the conn.'

'I have the conn,' Kydd repeated, with beating heart.

'Petty Officer Kydd has the conn, sir,' Hallison called to Parry, who looked around at the hail, but only grunted and turned back.

'Are ye ready, lad?' Hallison said gravely. If anything went wrong there would be no time for Kydd to rush below and call him - and the blame would be entirely his.

'Yes,' Kydd said.

'Right. I'll have me breakfast an' be up here after.' He disappeared down the after hatchway leaving Kydd with direct responsibility for ensuring the ship actually sailed where it was supposed to.

Nervously Kydd looked over the helmsman's shoulder at the binnacle. The due course lazily swam under the lubber's line. 'See she stays that way,' he growled, and stepped back. The whites of the helmsman's eyes showed briefly as they followed Kydd. A hard quartermaster could make a trick at the helm a misery.

Unable to prevent a grin of sheer elation, Kydd paced over to leeward, and looked down the ship's side at the wake, bubbling and hissing its way aft. He followed it as it slid away past the stern to merge in a ruler-straight line that stretched away in the distance. He drew a deep breath, strolled back to the helm and stood, arms akimbo, the picture of a taut petty officer.

Hallison returned, and took the conn. Again there was no comment, the traverse board had been properly kept up, the pegs in their holes stepping out from the centre telling of the ship's progress every bell of the watch. In the swelling warmth of the sun it was proving to be a fine morning; the sea was in the process of changing from the grey-green of temperate latitudes to a deep tropic blue.

Hands for exercise was piped for the forenoon, and while Kydd watched idly from the quarterdeck, topsails were loosed and furled at a great rate. He would still be required to haul on ropes, but only at times when skilled seamanship was needed, such as when tacking ship.

Hallison touched his hat, and Kydd saw that Mr Prewse, the sailing master, had come on deck. 'This is Thomas Kydd, been rated quartermaster's mate,' said Hallison. Kydd doffed his hat and stood respectfully.

'Just so,' said the Master, looking at Kydd keenly. 'Have you your letters?'

'Aye, sir.' It would probably not be to Kydd's advantage to mention that he had acquired an intimacy of the works of both Mr Diderot and Mr Locke recently.

'Then this afternoon, I desire you should assist the mate of the hold when he opens it. You shall take the reckoning.' He paused, watching Kydd pensively. 'Have you an acquaintance of the sea chart? No? Perhaps you shall do so presentiy. Attend me in my cabin at four bells this forenoon.'

Mr Prewse had his cabin opening on the wardroom, along with all the officers except the Captain. This was the first time Kydd had entered the area. The Master had personal custody of the ship's charts, with the responsibility of entering unusual observations such as uncharted islands or breakers betraying a reef.

'Do you take the pen, and make a fair copy beneath,' Prewse said, sliding across a hatched representation in minute detail of a section of coastline from the seaward. His extensive notes and sketches revealed the painstaking care he brought to his responsibility.

Kydd took the chair in the cramped cabin, and pulled the lamp closer. It was charged with spermaceti oil and gave a pure, clean flame, well suited to the close work. He lifted the pen and inspected it. It was the smallest quill he had ever seen, the carefully shaped nib ending in a tiny hair's breadth. He dipped it into the stone well and set to work.

'I shall return in one bell,' Prewse said.

With keen eyes and hands unaffected by grog-tremor, Kydd executed a neat and clean drawing, as near as he could judge to the original, well before the Master's return. He sat quietly waiting, but his eyes were drawn to the chart underlying his sketch. 'The Great China Sea', it said in large curlicued words in the tide cartouche, and in smaller print was 'From Lye Moon to the Philippine Islands'. Modestly beneath in plain letters was, 'By James Boyde, a Master in the Royal Navy, mdcclviii.'

There was a scale at the edge and it was covered with tiny numbers, but the expanse of China and a spill of islands were clear enough. Complex star concentrations of lines were scattered randomly across the chart, lines that to Kydd made not the slightest sense. At the bottom were several views of coastlines similar to the one Kydd had just done and he bent with interest to look at them.

'The great Captain Cook never sailed these seas — yon is a poor enough thing to compare.' Kydd had not heard Prewse return, and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. 'No, lad, sit y'self down.' He picked up Kydd's work. 'Hmm - a fair hand ye have. I think we can make use of you. Kydd, is it not?' 'Sir.'

Kydd's eyes strayed back to the chart. The Master's eyes softened. 'I lost a good man in Macao t' the bloody flux, you show willing and you c'n take his place.'

'By y'r leave, sir, I need t' get m' learning as quartermaster first,' Kydd said respectfully. He didn't want to be tied to sedentary work below while the action was on deck.

'You shall,' Prewse said sharply.

There was no need for the raucous thunder of the drum at the main hatch. Everyone knew they would approach the Spanish possession of the Yslas Philipinas in this cool dawn at quarters, guns run out and battle ensign swirling defiantly. If war had already been declared there was every chance that Spain would send out a squadron to their territory. That would make it a risky business to approach the deeply enclosing Manila Bay. When far inside, if there were powerful enemy men-o'-war within, a rapid escape could prove problematical.

Artemis raised land at three bells, the northern tip of the enclosing arm of the great bay. The opposing southern tip was visible a bare ten miles away, but ahead it was as if they were passing into open sea. Closer to the passage, first one, then many small fishing-craft appeared. With their double outriggers and nipa sails they skimmed like pond insects in the calmer seas, keeping the occupants' brown skins wet with spray. They kept effortlessly with the frigate, which was under easy sail, some waving, but all clearly curious at the big warship arriving.

There was a scattering of small, low-lying islands in their path, a number with isolated white buildings glistening in the strengthening sun, and an indeterminate flag flying on one.

Lookouts were posted at each masthead, and two at each top; even so the highest could not detect the inner limits of the bay within the far horizon. They passed into the wider expanse, tension mounting. They might well be fighting for their lives within the hour.

'Sail hooooo!’ the fore masthead lookout yelled. His outstretched arm was flung out to fine on the leeward bow. Parry hastened to clamber up the fore-shrouds, his telescope awkwardly under his arm. In the foretop he had it up instantly, trained on the bearing.

For a space, nothing, then — 'Deck hooo! An aviso!’ A fast government despatch boat: she would have had no warning of their approach. As her single sail grew in definition, they saw it angle towards them. Artemis held her course, and the aviso closed to within clear visual distance, then pirouetted about and foamed back the way she had come.

The die was now cast. They approached the far side of the bay, where the city of Manila was clearly distinguishable. Every spy-glass was up and trained, straining for the sight of men-o'-war.

The minutes dragged.

At last it became clear there was no danger. The long anchorage off the sleepy tropical city was dotted with a scattering of merchant ships and native craft scudding about, but not even a minor warship was to be seen.

Powlett swept his glass up and down the coast, then back to the squat, sprawling fort that was becoming prominent on the flat land. 'They do not appear to be concerned, Mr Fairfax,' he grunted.

'No, sir,' Fairfax said, not easing his habitual worried expression. 'Then we take it they have no news of a war?'

'Keep the men at the guns, but prepare a salute on the fo'c'sle,' Powlett ordered. 'It would be a folly to trust the Dons, I believe.'

The frigate, by far the biggest vessel in the anchorage, slowed in its approach.

'It would be their folly to take us for fools,' growled Parry. 'We can take the whole lot o' these should we please.'

Powlett's sardonic smile was hedged with exasperation. 'Have a care, Mr Parry. You will remark the flags of these ships. I see but one with Spanish colours — ah, there we have an English, our proof there is no war.' He snapped his glass closed.

A heavy thud drew attention to the fort. Smoke drifted from the embrasures. Another gun fired.

'Prepare our salute, Mr Fairfax.'

'Don't look up t' much,' Doud said doubtfully, looking shorewards at the low, somnolent landscape with its fringing palms, muddy river oozing into the bay, and the maze of rickety huts on the outer fringes of the small city. Above all was the smell of the warm, heavy odour of pigs and tropical vegetation.

Around the ship hovered a dozen or more of the distinctive twin-outrigger boats, hawking strange fruits, fish and vegetables. They were kept at a respectful distance by a vigilant watch-on-deck.

'Don' ye worry, mate, it'd have ter be the first sailor's port ever without it's got its cunny burrows.' Cundall had his back to Kydd, deliberately excluding him from the conversation on the fo'c'sle.

This would be the last port of call before they re-entered the Indian Ocean on their way back to England that could in any way be classed as 'civilisation' and Powlett would be sure to grant shore-leave.

'Ye're missin' a fuckle, are ye, Cundall?' said Doud contemptuously. He winked openly at Kydd past Cundall.

Kydd felt awkward, unsure of how he should relate to his old friends in his new rating. He winked back and gave an uneasy smile.

Doud sauntered past Cundall and stood companionably next to Kydd at the fore shrouds. 'What's his grandevity think o' this, Tom?'

Gratefully Kydd took up the lead. 'Nicholas? Thinks we're wastin' time. If it was war, this time o' year we'd have no chance t' catch the Manila Galleon and the prizes we'd take wouldn't be worth sailin' all the way back.'

Grimacing, Doud nodded. 'Thought as much. Sooner we head back, better it is fer all.'

Kydd felt grateful to Doud, not so much for the friendliness but for how he had shown Kydd that he could still be sociable with old friends, and wear a different face when on duty. The bell sounded sharp behind them, a double strike. Kydd made a brief goodbye and went aft to his part-of-ship station.

'We has visitors, then,' murmured one of his men, waiting at the base of the mizzen. He nodded to a merchant ship's longboat approaching Artemis from astern. It was pulled by four sailors who were making heavy weather of it. In the sternsheets was a single figure, from his cocked hat and breeches obviously no seaman.

'Boat ahoooy!’ bawled the mate of the watch, Quinlan. The boat did not lie off and hail but made to come alongside immediately.

'Stand off, the boat!' roared Quinlan.

The officer of the deck, Rowley, stepped over to the ship's side. 'Give him a cold shot if he tries it again,' he said. A grinning seaman helped himself to a twelve-pounder carronade round-shot and held it above his head. At the threat, the boat ceased rowing and the men lay on their oars. One of the men in the sternsheets scrambled to his feet, swaying wildly. He called out but his thin, fretful voice was impossible to catch in the slop and hurry of waves against the ship's side. When this produced no response from the frigate, the man threw down his hat in exasperation and shook his fist.

'Perhaps we should allow that untutored boor to approach,' drawled Rowley, easing his cuffs. 'Only one to come aboard, Hallison.'

When the man finally appeared over the bulwarks he had worked himself into a state. 'You, sir!' he stormed at Rowley. 'You are the Master of this vessel, this - this—'

Rowley waited, allowing the splutters to subside. 'No, sir, I am not. Lieutenant Rowley, third of His Majesty's frigate Artemis,' he said, with a slight bow that would not have been out of place at introductions in Carlton House.

The man stared, then resumed tetchily, 'Kindly fetch him, then, if you please.'

'Captain Powlett is not at liberty to see you, sir,' Rowley said sharply. 'He is ashore paying his respects to the governor.'

'Then, sir, I shall wait.' His plain dark grey and black garb suggested he was perhaps a member of the clergy.

'I should be obliged if you would state your business, sir,' said Rowley stiffly.

'No business of yours, I assure you, sir - it is your captain I wish to see, and the matter is, I might allow, of a degree of urgency.'

Rowley hesitated. 'He may well be some time. Might I suggest—'

'I shall wait, however long it takes.'

He folded his arms and glared at Rowley, who pursed his lips. 'Get a chair from the wardroom,' he ordered. When it arrived he thumped it to the deck and gestured mutely.

Powlett returned over an hour later, his face tight. The boatswain's calls twittered and he hauled himself rapidly up the side. 'God in heaven, what's this?' he roared, at the sight of the figure sitting obstinately in a chair in the middle of the deck.

'You are the Captain?' the man said icily. 'Who the devil—?' Powlett threw at Rowley. 'Sir, this man—'

'Hobbes, Edward Hobbes. You may be acquainted with the name?'

The high, hectoring voice could not have been more calculated to inflame Powlett on his own quarterdeck, but his hesitation, more at the effrontery than at an effort of memory, gave Hobbes more time. 'Or perhaps not. It is of no consequence.' He fumbled inside his coat and brought out an envelope. 'But I rather fancy this is.' He handed it to Powlett with a drooping wrist, the fouled anchor cypher of the Board of Admiralty prominent on the envelope.

Powlett accepted it with bad grace and took out the contents to read.

'You will note the provision of "all possible assistance from any King's ship",' Hobbes said, with an irritating level of assurance.

'I see from this that you are a man of science, sir, who is at present engaged in a voyage of discovery. I do not possibly see how this can be allowed to affect the affairs of a ship-of-war.'

'Then, sir, I will tell you.' Hobbes looked around the anchorage, and pointed. 'That is my ship, a brig of some species. It has split its front mast in a storm and until it gets a piece of the right kind of wood from somewhere or other it seems it cannot venture further on the high seas.' His nostrils pinched in exasperation. 'My purpose, sir, is astronomical. It is essential for me to be at a point on the meridian diametrically in opposition to that of Greenwich on a date not far hence for a crucial observation, the nature of which need not concern you. Thus you will see that I am at a stand, sir, in need of conveyance to that point — to the Great South Sea I have no need to remind you.'

Powlett stared in amazement. 'Sir, am I to understand that you are asking me to divert the course of my vessel some two thousand miles for your sole convenience?'

Hobbes stiffened. 'My convenience is not the point at issue, but that of science is. This observation adds materially to the sum of knowledge of the earth's precession, which I would have thought would interest even the meanest practitioner of navigation,' he finished, in tones laced with sarcasm.

Powlett straightened. 'Not possible! This frigate is a man-o'-war, not a damned—'

Hobbes leant forward and spoke in a flat, hard voice: 'I have no need to remind you, Captain, that the letter is signed by Sir Philip Stephens himself, who is also acquainted to me personally. Should you be the cause of my inability to discharge my duty to the Admiralty then I have no doubt that you may very well—'

'So be it! Your letter is authority enough, but there will be an accounting of this, sir, mark my word!'

Hobbes eased back in satisfaction.

'Mr Prewse, we shall return home east-about, by Cape Horn. Be so good as to attend me in my cabin at six bells with charts.'

'Then I may instruct my assistant to convey aboard my instruments,' Hobbes said. It was a statement, not a question.

'Assistant?' Powlett snapped.

'Mr Evelyn, a most able young man. And our servants, of course.'

Powlett's eyes glittered dangerously. 'And your cook and washerwoman, no doubt?'

Hobbes sniffed. 'There is no need to be facetious, Captain. I might remind you that time is of the essence.'

'No liberty ashore? The slivey bastards! What right d' they have t' tell Black Jack what time o' day it is?' Haynes was pale and dangerous; Kydd kept his silence.

Renzi replied, quietly, 'Every right. They're on an Admiralty mission, and we're a King's ship. But I don't believe that is the reason why we can't step off. Recollect that this is Spanish territory and they will not take kindly to our presence — there is every possibility of a fracas if we are allowed ashore.'

'There'll be a frack-arse if we ain't allowed, mate,' Crow said, without humour.

The moody silence was broken by Mullion, whose heavy jaw and brass earrings squared with his big, tough hands to give an impression of indomitable strength. 'Yer could be overlookin' somethin', gents,' he said, a smile lurking.

'An' what's that?' Haynes snapped.

'We's headed t' the Great South Sea - an' while that ain't a prime place fer prizes, yer recollects that fer quim-stickin' it can't be beat.'

Kydd's knowledge of native island people was limited to popular lurid tales ranging all the way from cannibalism to an idyllic Eden.

The rest of the mess reanimated, and talk quickened. There was a scratching at the canvas flap. Haynes, being nearest, stuck out his head with a baleful 'Yeah?'

'Mr Fairfax wants you ter vittle in them scientifical gents, Mr Haynes,' rumbled an unknown voice.

'Not 'ere 'e doesn't, cully,' Haynes said abruptly.

'An' he did say youse are the smallest mess 'n' can take two easy-like.'

Haynes cursed.

'The wardroom takes two, 'n' their servants come 'ere,' the voice continued remorselessly. 'What shall I tell 'im?'

The pair could not have made more of a contrast.

'Thank ye, gennelmen,' said one brightly, 'Ben Doody, an' I takes care o' Mr Evelyn. Yer won't need ter see me offen,' he added, his large three-cornered hat awkwardly in his big hands probably more because of the low deck-beams than out of respect. His bucolic figure beamed down on them.

The other was a pinched, crabbed man, whose drab black resembled that of a down-at-heel clerk. His first comment was a sour 'We expec' to take our vittles in private, y'understands.' Haynes rose slowly and advanced on him. The man backed away, but tripped on a ring-bolt and fell to his knees.

Kydd helped him up and asked, 'An' who 'r' you?'

'Rance, Jeremiah Rance.' He looked viciously at Haynes and added, 'Servant o' Mr Hobbes.'

'Yer've got yer dunnage?' Crow said mildly, looking from one to the other.

Doody looked perplexed but Rance thumbed towards the deck outside. 'Yeah, we have — outside.' He stood aside to allow someone to move past to carry the baggage inside.

Nobody moved. Crow looked at Haynes seriously, but Haynes returned the look with cruel glee. 'Gonna be a long v'yage home, they tells me.'

'Sir, it's quite impossible — our charts are old, of th' last age. It is madness even to consider the matter!' The sailing master was uncharacteristically blunt, and Powlett glowered, but subsided. 'And by this you are saying that we cannot reach their meridian in time? We must take risks, sir.'

The table was overflowing with charts, and Kydd carried still others under his arm.

'Risks? The word is too soft, sir! These islands are so numerous no man has counted them! And they are of the coral kind, whose fangs can tear the heart out of the stoutest vessel. Even Cap'n Cook was near to founderin' after takin' the ground on a coral islet!'

Powlett's baffled fury was barely held in check. The main Philippine islands ran a thousand miles north and south, a barrier to any ship from the China Sea that wanted to enter into the limitless expanses of the Pacific Ocean. 'The Spaniards pass through safely enough — I have heard the name San Bernardino mentioned.'

'Aye, sir, but they have the charts an' the pilots, both o' which they would rather fry in hell than let us have. Sir, it is my duty t' say, it's mortal danger to our vessel should we flog about in unknown seas looking for a passage, we have no choice but to sail endelong around.'

'Three, four hundred miles north, same distance back the other side - it sticks in m' craw, Mr Prewse — and we fail the mission!' Powlett tossed down the chart and stared in frustration through the broad stern windows.

Kydd stirred. 'Sir,' he found himself saying, 'we have Doody, one o' th' gentleman's servants. He—'

'Hold y'r peace,' Prewse muttered, gathering up the charts. 'This is not business f'r you.'

But Powlett turned round. 'What is it, Kydd?'

'Well, sir, he says as how they got a visit fr'm the shore, some Spanish lord mayor or somethin', who was greatly anxious t' get south to the central part. He offered 'em gold dollars if they'd take him there.' Kydd noticed Prewse's tight expression, but continued respectfully, 'O' course, they had t' refuse him but, beggin' y'r pardon, sir, seems t' me that you could offer him a passage an' in return he sees y' safely through to the further side.'

'Y' can't trust the Dons, sir.'

Powlett's hand rasped on his chin as he mused. 'It's a long way from Manila to the central parts. I'd wager the details of any arrangement would not necessarily need to be of concern to this mayor's superiors.' He straightened in decision. 'Let's get him aboard, promise of passage for money, and we'll discuss the alternative afterwards.'

Rowley's minimal Spanish was barely adequate, but the minor grandee affected not to notice. A dark-complexioned man with glittering black eyes, he was extraordinarily controlled in his expression and gestures, each movement considered and graceful, but watchful withal.

Not knowing the naval salutes due a Spanish corregidor, Powlett had lined the entry point with as many boatswain's mates as he could find. The ceremonial calls sounded strident and clear, clearly gratifying to the proud Spaniard. He bowed and scraped with the utmost courtesy, but was reluctant to go below with the first lieutenant; there had been few first-class fighting frigates seen before in these waters.

Stirk watched the proceedings with interest from the fo'c'sle. 'Where they gonna get their swedes down? Hobbes 'as the cabins.'

At that moment Crow arrived. 'Aft on the gundeck — yer've not heard: it's out o' bounds ter us, worried there'll be a frack-arse.' The term was going around the ship fast.

A hesitant Doody emerged by the after-hatch. Looking around he spotted Kydd and waved. Kydd grinned and beckoned him forward. 'Mr 'Obbes is in a rare oP takin',' Doody chuckled. 'Won't speak ter the Spanish gennelman, says as how we'll never get t' his meridian in time 'cos of his delay.'

'Why the orlmighty rush?'

'Somethin' ter do with his instryments - has t' take readin's an' such on the far side o' the world at exactly at the same time as they does in Greenwich, but why

'Your Evelyn, 'e seems a sharp sorta hand,' Crow said.

'He is! Lives fer 'is science. Seen him up past midnight, a-readin' his books 'n' papers - but he takes care an' dismisses me fer the night, bless 'is heart.'

Kydd smiled. 'So this cruise could be t' your liking?'

'Oh, aye! I engaged ter Mr Evelyn t' see the world, an' I have.' His broad country face beamed. 'I'll have such a grand lot o' tales ter tell 'em back in the village, why, I'll not need t' buy me an ale fer months.'

The sailors roared with laughter, and Doody looked about him delighted.

'Here's yer mate,' Crow said, seeing Rance tramp up the fore hatchway.

Sighting Doody he approached. "Obbes wants 'is stores stowed away,' he ordered, 'an' he's sayin' now.' Doody winked at the seamen and left with Rance.

Artemis stretched south at speed, the north-west monsoon perfect for the cruise through an inland sea past tropical islands, some hundreds of miles long, like the mountainous Mindoro, some no more than tiny sandy islets a hundred yards long. All were densely verdant, with jungle down to the water's edge and little sign of human presence.

The corregidor and his small party kept to themselves and were seldom seen. This was an agreeable thing for the seamen, for Hobbes had the habit of striding the decks at dawn, impeding the sailors at their cleaning duties, and he was always followed by a cloud of muttered curses.

By the following afternoon Artemis was slipping down the coast of Panay, the blue mountains of the interior plain to see. As the first dog-watch was struck on the bell she hauled her wind to shape course to an easterly around the southern tip of the island, and as dusk began to draw in they reached their destination, the small provincial town of Ylo-Ylo.

In the late-afternoon sun, a cluster of buildings could be seen lying low and level at the water's edge, their whiteness contrasting against the inky blue of the sea, the deep green of the thick tropical vegetation, and a gathering red sunset.

'Man the side!'

The corregidor wasted no time in disembarking; Artemis's barge was specially called away for the task. As the boat's crew pulled lustily for the shore, Hobbes watched them go, then turned to Powlett. 'May I know why we are not immediately proceeding on our way? Lose not a moment, sir, we—'

'Damn and blast! We cannot stir but we have a pilot,' Powlett snarled. 'If the Don keeps his part o' the bargain . . .'

A tropical dusk fell and lights began to glimmer in the violet gloom ashore, the barge crew long since returned. A long bulking shadow in the sea nearby was the high brown island that sheltered Ylo-Ylo, and the peculiar odours of a foreign shore could be occasionally made out, but for want of a pilot the ship lay unmoving in the night.

The next day was only an hour old when activity was seen ashore, which resolved into a twin outrigger boat skimming its way directly towards Artemis. Two men were aboard, a Spaniard and a Filipino. The boat, with its single brightly coloured lateen sail, smartly came about in a rainbow shower of spray and drifted up to the side.

The boat-boy flung a painter of coarse coir rope aboard the frigate and the Spaniard climbed the side. 'Piloto,' he stated loudly, as though not expecting to be understood by the English officers.

His eyebrows lifted at Rowley's fractured welcome, to which he replied in loud but simple words.

'Our pilot, sir,' said Rowley. 'Mr, er, Salcedo. I think he begs that the bangkha be towed astern, as they will use it later in their return.'

'Very well,' Powlett answered.

His keen look at the man seemed to discommode him, or it could have been the sheer intimidating size of the frigate, much bigger than the usual trading vessels of the region. Salcedo was short and stumpy with an Iberian intensity, but his attempt at swagger did not convince.

He went to the side and shouted angrily at the boat-boy, who doused and stowed the sail, paying out more of the painter and doubling it around the mast. He scrambled awkwardly up the side, and as he came over the bulwark stumbled and sprawled headlong.

Salcedo's eyes flickered to the quarterdeck gathering and back to the helpless boat-boy. He snorted angrily. From inside his shirt he drew out a peculiar short coil of a black flexible substance, chased in leather at one end, the other terminating in a knobby excrescence. He lashed at the boat-boy who waited motionless on hands and knees, but when the blows ceased he looked up with a deadly hatred.

Powlett's face hardened. 'Take that man forward, and see he's messed comfortably.'

Prewse motioned to Kydd, who led away the boat-boy.

It seemed the logical thing. Pinto was a Portuguese, which was nearly Spain, and in the event grudgingly admitted to the language. Kydd handed the man over, his brown face and black eyes clearing at the rough sympathy his treatment had earned from the sailors.

Pinto, it became clear, knew more than a little Spanish, for he was able to explain Salcedo's curious instrument. 'He was beat wi' the pizzle o' the horse,' he said blank-faced. 'Ver' painful but hurt th' honour more.'

'What's his name?'

'He say his name Goryo — this is the Ylongos name, he come from Guimaras.'

'Tell 'im we'll see him right, mate,' Petit said.

By the time Kydd had reached his post at the helm the ship was at stations to unmoor ship. The anchor was broken easily enough from the sandy sea-bed and sail dropped from every yard. With a graceful sway Artemis reached out over the sparkling seas towards the eastern horizon, almost exactly half-way along the barrier of the Philippines.

The pilot stood impassive next to the wheel, but all the officers of Artemis and the sailing master were on the quarterdeck as well. It was hard to take, trusting the safety of the ship to one man, and there was an aura of apprehension among them.

Panay was left astern, but other islands large and small were scattered about on all sides. By early afternoon one in particular loomed across their path, and in the background the grey-blue of a continous mountainous coast in the further distance stretched as far as they could see in both directions — a complete block on their further progress.

Powlett was taking no chances. In the forechains, Kydd was heaving the lead, a skilled and wet job. Held by a canvas belt to the shrouds, he stood alone on the narrow platform at their base, leaning out over the sea hissing past below. He began each cast with a swing, which would get bigger and bigger, until he could whirl the long lead weight in a neat circle over his head before sending it plummeting into the sea well ahead. The line would rush out while the vessel overran the position, and when the line was vertical Kydd interpreted the depth from the nearest mark to the water — red bunting, black leather, a blue serge, or if it lay between marks it would be estimated as a 'deep'. It was not a job for the faint-hearted. A hesitant fist on the line could bring the seven-pound lead down on an unprotected skull.

'No bottom with this line!' bawled Kydd, as cast after cast brought no sudden slackening of the line. He continued his work steadily, with the same result, the wet line rapidly soaking him.

Ahead lay the island. The officers' faces tightened as the frigate sailed closer. 'This is the island of Masbate, apparently,' Rowley said, in response to Salcedo's grunting. Artemis kept her course, anxious eyes staring forward all along her deck.

'Sir, we're standing into danger,' blurted Parry, fixing his eyes balefully on Salcedo, who continued to look ahead sullenly.

Powlett glanced at Salcedo. 'The passage through will be narrow and difficult, Mr Parry. We will follow this fellow's course.'

Kydd cast the lead once more. It plunged into the sea, but this time the line slackened. He hauled it taut quickly, and when the ship overtook it his hail changed. 'By the deep twelve!' The deadly coral now lay seventy-odd feet below the sea.

On the quarterdeck the group of men looked at each other. 'Steady on course!' said Rowley. The tension grew, and on deck seamen off watch looked at each other uneasily.

'By the mark ten!' Kydd pulled in the line quickly, hand over hand, and as he did so he caught a subliminal flicker of a paler shape passing swiftly below, followed by an indeterminate darker shape, before the sea resumed its usual deep blue-green.

It was always disturbing for a sailor to sense that things other than an infinite depth lay beneath the keel, and a coral sea-bed was quite outside Kydd's experience. Sixty feet, and Artemis drew about eighteen feet at her deepest, the stern.

Salcedo seemed edgy. His gaze was clamped as though fixing a mark, although there was nothing that remotely resembled a seamark on the lush slopes of the island ahead.

Kydd watched carefully. The red bunting hung wetly from the lead-line a few inches above the water. 'By the deep eight!' he bawled. Only thirty feet separated the vulnerable bottom of Artemis from the cruel coral. Now the alternating pale and dark was common. He shivered and brought in the line for another cast.

This time it was the Master who spoke. 'Sir, I should bring it to y'r attention - unless we bear away soon we will not weather the point.' He hesitated then continued, 'This is hard, sir, to stay quiet while we enter into hazard at the word of a Spaniard.'

Powlett snapped back, 'This will be a channel we are following — it makes no sense for the fellow to wreck us ashore.'

'By the mark five!' Kydd's hail carried clear to the quarterdeck. Ten feet below the keel! An instant stirring among the officers, but Salcedo continued to gaze doggedly ahead.

'This is too much, sir, we will be cast ashore!'

The Master confronted Powlett, who thrust him aside. 'Stand fast!' he roared.

At that moment there was a scuffle on the foredeck, and Pinto raced aft, followed by a shambling Goryo, clearly enjoying the effects of generous offerings of grog. 'Sir!' panted Pinto to the Captain, knuckling his forehead. 'This Ylongos, he tell me, we are condemn!' In his urgency the English wilted. Salcedo looked sharply at him and then at the Filipino.

'What?' Powlett bellowed.

Salcedo jabbered tensely at the Filipino, who shouted back.

Pinto's eyes stared wildly. 'Sir, they mean to run us on the reef, and leave us as plunder fer the natives!'

Chapter 10

For a split second there was a shocked silence, broken only by Kydd's anxious yell, 'By the deep four!' Then came a burst of simultaneous action. Salcedo dived for the bulwarks and was brought to the deck with a crash by Hallison; Powlett bellowed orders that had the frigate sheering into the wind to check her ongoing surge; and all hands rushed to the side to look down into the gin-clear waters.

The coral bottom was clearly visible twenty-five feet below, a riot of colourful rocks interspersed with bright patches of sandy bottom, with just enough depth to shade all with an ominous hue. The frigate drifted forward slowly despite her backed sails. The trap had been well sprung; heading for the sloping reef with the wind constant from astern, there was no way the square-rigged vessel could simply turn into the wind and claw off.

There was little time. As Artemis lay hove to, Powlett turned to Parry. 'Into the boat. Find a passage ahead out.' He wheeled on Salcedo. 'And get this villainous dog out of my sight — in irons!'

Parry lost no time in shedding his cocked hat and other encumbrances. He signalled to Doud, who went over the bulwarks and into the mizzen-chains pulling the bangkha up to allow Parry to board it, before following himself. The boat-boy headed over the side and emerged spluttering. He heaved himself up into the narrow craft and Doud surrendered the little steering oar to him.

Stopping only to claim Kydd's hand lead, the bangkha skimmed off at an angle.

Kydd took another lead-line and resumed his duty, watching the reef garden pass beneath them at a slow walking pace as the frigate drifted. He saw occasional heads of coral rising above the exotic undersea plain, their details horrifyingly clear.

Twenty feet.

All eyes were on the bangkha, which was half a mile off and seemed preoccupied with a particular area.

It was a fearful thing, to face the impending destruction of their magnificent fighting machine - but when it was also their home, their refuge, their everything . . . Kydd felt a cold uncertainty creeping into him. He gathered the line for another cast, but before he could begin the swing he felt the frigate tremble through his feet. Almost immediately another subliminal rumble came and then the ship's drifting was checked and the vessel seemed to pivot around slightly.

He heard a grumbling scrape at the hull. Aft, the sea grew rapidly cloudy with pale particles. Sudden fear showed in every face. Then the ship swung free and continued its slow drift.

Kydd looked around for the bangkha. It was a mile away, at the point off the end of the large island, but it was returning with Parry standing erect at peril of being taken by the long boom. The bangkha whirled to a stop a few hundred yards off the bow. Parry ducked the sail and stood. At his signal the vessel's fore topsail loosed and, with steerage way on, Artemis altered towards her. The bangkha waited, then skimmed ahead to another point.

They were still heading towards the island, but angling towards its tip, and Kydd felt instinctively that they were following a slightly deeper channel implied by a tide-scour around the point. Certainly the soundings had steadied. They passed close to the island, almost within earshot of the small group of villagers gathering on the sea-shore who watched in awe as the big ship passed so near. A few waved shyly, but the ship's rate of progress was so quick that they were the other side of the island and stretching away beyond in minutes.

The coral fell away rapidly to an anonymous cobalt blue. The carpenter clumped up from below to report a dry hold and Parry was cordially slapped on the back as he returned on deck. Pinto touched his forehead and spoke to Powlett. 'Th' Ylongos say, he know where we go, an' it is distant nine leagues — there he visit his brother,' he said. More sail was made and, to lifting hearts, Artemis foamed away over the glittering sea.

'A splendid sight, Captain.' Hobbes had finished his breakfast below unaware of the drama of the morning, and was now ready to take a stroll about the decks. He looked at Powlett curiously. 'I see your Spanish friend has incurred your wrath. He certainly appears unhappy at his fate, raging below that he is to be sacrificed when the ship strikes the rocks.' His expression was politely enquiring, but Powlett didn't enlighten him.

Ahead the impassable barrier loomed, but it soon became clear that the northern part overlapped the south, and before the noonday meal was piped they had taken on substance and reality — and a steep channel had opened between them. It widened and there was a slight swell. The southern point drew back to reveal a small but definite slot of daylight between the two land masses. The channel broadened more and they began breasting the swell that could only come from a great ocean, long, languorous and effortlessly driving into the shore.

'God be praised’ muttered Hobbes.

Powlett came to a decision. 'Ask this fellow’ indicating Goryo, 'where there is water. We take the opportunity to wood 'n' water while we can.'

It was a scene of tropic splendour. Kydd felt an uncouth intruder in his rough sea-clothes as he stepped out of the boat and into the sandy shallows of a sheltered bay on the inward side of the point.

'This is enchantment incarnate’ Renzi breathed, treading softly on the sandy beach, as they headed for the shade of the fringing palm trees.

There was a guilty thrill in stepping on to the soil of a Spanish colony - but a very real apprehension too, for if a Spanish man-o'-war suddenly rounded the point to dispute with Artemis, the small shore party would necessarily be abandoned. And apart from Goryo's assurances, there might be a Spanish fort over the jungle-topped cliffs further inland. At this very moment a party of soldiers could well be slashing their way towards them through the undergrowth.

Armed marines hastened to secure each end of the beach. Kydd was uneasily aware that, in the event of trouble, the most they could achieve would be a small delay. But that might be enough to enable them to return to the cutter, which now lay safely bobbing to a small anchor a dozen yards out, bows to sea.

The vivid island jungle, with its colour and noise, distracted Kydd. He keenly felt his new responsibility for his small party. 'Spread some canvas, then, you scowbunkin' lubbers!' he shouted, as much at Renzi as his own men, who stood about gaping at the profusions of nature. Renzi's party would fill the huge leaguer casks at the spring among the rocks after Kydd's party emptied them of old water remaining and rolled them up the beach, but at the moment Renzi was wasting time standing in admiration at the scene.

Reluctantly the men began the task, stagnant water bubbling out into the golden sand. Then the cask was bullied up the beach, under the enormous palms and to the rocks a little further along.

The leaguer would be a crushing half a ton in weight when filled, and therefore would need to be parbuckled on spars down the soft sand. There would be no laborious loading into the boat, however. Fresh water was lighter than salt and the huge casks would be gently floated out to the ship.

Kydd put his shoulder to the barrels with the rest and the work proceeded. He couldn't help darting uneasy glances at the dense foliage at the edge of the jungle, thinking of what might lie behind the thick verdancy. This land was exotic and subdy alien. It would be good to make it back to the familiar safety of the ship.

A preternatural disquiet seized him. Something round about him had changed, and he was not sure what. The hair on the back of his neck rose. The big barrel came to a stop, but the ill-natured mumbling trailed off when the men saw Kydd's face. He froze, trying to let his senses tell him. Then he had it. It was the quiet. The raucous racket of parakeets had subsided, their quarrels retreating into the distance and letting an ominous silence descend.

Kydd's eyes searched the thick undergrowth — was that the glint of an eye? An unnatural shaking of leaves? They were unarmed: if there was a sudden rush it would all be over in moments. His palms sweated as he considered what to do. Delay would only allow the hidden numbers to swell until they were ready to attack.

He yelled hoarsely at the nearest sentry, and picking up a cooper's iron stumbled towards the jungle path barely visible in the fringing growth. If he and the sentries could buy the others time . . .

Terrified squeals broke out, and into the open burst at least a dozen nut-brown children. They clutched at each other in fear, staring at Kydd with big black eyes.

'Fr God's sake!' he blazed, lowering the cooper's iron and letting his heart's thudding die down. His expression might have been suitable for crowding on to an enemy deck, but now . . .

He forced a smile. 'Y'r nothin' but a bunch of rascals, d'ye hear?' he called. They stood fearfully and Kydd's eyes were caught by the spasmodic tug of a small boy at his older sister's ragged dress.

'Come here, y' little weasels!' he said, holding his hands out and clicking his fingers.

Nobody reacted until the small boy stepped forward half a pace and called out boldly, 'Pini-pig!’ before swiftly assuming the safety of his sister's skirt.

The cry was repeated by others, and more, until a regular chant began, 'Pirn-pig! Pini-pig! Pini-pig!’

The other sailors had come up with Kydd at the sight of the children, but now they growled in exasperation. "Oo are they callin' a pig, then?' a tough able seaman snapped.

'Take a strap to 'em, I will,' said an older seaman.

Kydd advanced on them but they kept up their chant, baiting the sailors. Suddenly Pinto appeared, followed by Goryo. Kydd had not heard their noiseless approach in the bangkha.

'Tell 'em they're in f'r a hidin' if they keep it up,' said Kydd, but already Goryo was shouting at them, in a curious tongue, more like the babble of river-gravel in a stream. It had little effect.

Goryo turned to Pinto and spoke to him, sheepishly.

'He say, el ninos very rude to foreigner,' Pinto relayed on, 'an' he want t' apologise for them.'

The sailors glared.

'He say that when island traders come, they always give pini-pig, children think you are big, you have many pini-pig?

Pinto prodded further to discover that pint-pig was the basis of a much prized delicacy of Visayan children, dispensed in the form of a bamboo tube stuffed with pounded toasted young rice flavoured with coconut milk and palm sugar.

Laughing, Kydd unknotted his red kerchief. 'No pini-pigs,' he said softly, 'but this is f'r you.' He held it out to the older sister, who advanced shyly and accepted it with a bob, delightedly trying it on in different styles.

Goryo's face softened, and he murmured a few more words to Pinto, who looked at him sharply. 'He say - plis excuse, they are all excite because tomorrow Christmas.'

'You will, of course, be aware that this Spanish colony must be papist,' Renzi said. 'No heathens these.' As if in confirmation, the little ones' eyes sparkled and the chant changed to '' Chreestmaaas! Chreestmaaas!’

Kydd stared at the happy bunch: their careless joy was identical to what must be happening on the other side of the world, in England. Time had passed unmarked for Kydd, but at home there would now be the frosting of December cold, stark leafless trees and bitter winds. Here there was brilliant sun and exotic colour, outlandish feast-foods - and an unknown tongue.

When he turned to Renzi his eyes had misted. So much had happened in the year since he had been torn away from his own family by the press-gang, and he knew he could now never return to that innocent existence. He had changed too much. He cleared his throat and bawled at his men, 'Stap me, y' sluggards, I'll sweat some salt out o' y'r bones!'

'It's monstrous!' spluttered Hobbes. 'There is no time to lose, sir.'

Powlett rubbed his chin. 'It is clear, sir, you have no knowledge of the Sea Service. Before we may begin our venture upon the Great South Sea we must rattle down the fore-shrouds and, er, sway up the mizzen topmast.' He turned to the boatswain. 'That is so, is it not, Mr Merrydew?'

'Aye, sir,' he confirmed, bewildered.

'And this will take us until near sunset tomorrow,' Powlett went on.

'If'n you says, sir.'

'And therefore I see no reason not to grant liberty ashore to those hands not required.' He looked squarely at Hobbes. 'You may go ashore if you wish to, sir.'

Hobbes snorted and stalked off.

'Pass the word for the purser. We will see if fresh fish and greenstuff can be got while we have the chance.' 'Sir—'

'Mr Fairfax?'

'Sir, the Spaniard, will you—'

'Hang him, the scurvy rogue? Do you think I should?' It was a nice problem: without question he had been instructed in the deed, so who was the more guilty? 'Well, sir, I—'

'He has failed. He did not succeed in his purpose. We leave him to return and explain himself — punishment enough?'

'But, sir, he will implicate the savage.'

'Not if it is explained to him that in such an event we will have no other recourse than subsequently to express our deepest gratitude to his superiors for his safe pilotage through the Strait, for the merest pittance in gold.'

The next day most of the ship's company of Artemis padded down the jungle path, Captain Powlett and the first lieutenant leading with Goryo and Pinto, the rest following respectfully behind, all in their best shore-going rig. Stirk shouldered a sea-chest, and was flanked by Kydd and Crow, who also carried small bundles.

There would be no danger from the indolent Spaniards on this holy day and so far from the provincial centres; Powlett could rest easy with his men ashore for a few hours — a cannon fired from the ship would have them back in minutes.

As they walked the familiar sounds of the sea fell behind, replaced by the curious cries of geckoes, the swooping mellow call of the oriole, the screech of parrots. Sudden rustles in the undergrowth were perhaps wild pigs or other, unknown, species.

They halted at the edge of the village and were met by the wizened cabeza. His formal speech was rendered in Spanish by Goryo and in turn to English by Pinto. The words may have suffered on their journey but the sentiments were plain. Powlett bowed and they moved on into the village. The inhabitants stood in awe, grouped in the open clearing before the nipa palm thatched huts. To one side a glowing pit was tended by the old men of the village, whose job it was to slowly turn the lechon — an enormous spitted roast pig.

Gracefully shown to one side, the Captain sat with the cabeza at the only table with a covering, Goryo and Pinto standing behind. The rest of the men sat cross-legged on the bare earth, keenly aware of the tables on the opposite side of the clearing waiting to be loaded with food.

Stirk placed the sea-chest strategically behind Powlett. It contained unused remnants of finery left over from Lord Elmhurst's entourage. At the right time it would be brought forth, but not now.

Chivvied by one of the adults a file of children approached, and shyly presented to each man a little package wrapped in a charred banana leaf. Unsure, the men looked to their Captain. Powlett gingerly unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a discoloured rice cake. 'Bibtngka^ said Goryo, with satisfaction.

Kydd did likewise, and bit into it. The taste was a chaotic mix of flavours that made him gag. Powlett recovered his composure first and politely enquired of the cabeza. It transpired they were eating gelatinous rice with fermented coconut milk and salted eggs.

Pressed into line, the children sang. It was a remarkably unselfconscious performance, full, melodious and clear but no tune that Kydd could recognise. Renzi sat next to him, delicately picking at his bibingka. He didn't respond to Kydd's comment, wearing a faraway look that discouraged talk.

A hush descended. Powlett got to his feet. 'Bo'sun's mate,' he growled, 'pipe "hands to carols".' Hesitating only for an instant, the man's silver whistle whipped up and the call pealed out, harsh and unnatural in the jungle clearing. 'Haaaands to carols!' he roared.

The men stood up and shuffled their feet. '"Away In A Manger",' said Powlett. "Awaaaay In A Manger",' bellowed the boatswain's mate.

Doud's voice sounded out first, pure and clear. A bass picked up and others followed, and soon the ship's company was singing in unison. Kydd stole a glance at Haynes. The hard petty officer was singing, his voice low and heartfelt. He wouldn't meet Kydd's eye, and Kydd felt his own eyes pricking at the buried memories being brought to remembrance.

The children watched wide-eyed, wondering at the volume of sound the seamen produced, but when two or three more carols had been sung, they stepped forward and drew the men over to the tables where the feast had been laid.

No matter that the comestibles were as different from their normal fare as the exotic jungle chaos from the warlike neatness of a frigate. Language difficulties happily drew a veil over the true identities of the delicious fruit-bat broth, the ant-egg caviar and the dogmeat in nipa and garlic. The men ate heartily.

The children squealed in joy as they were carried on the shoulders of a fierce sailor, then thrown in the air and caught by those who in another world could reach effortlessly in darkness for invisible mizzen shrouds then swarm aloft. A red-faced Doody had them screaming in delight as he became a village pig and snorted and oinked at them from all fours. Others were chased shrieking about the compound by a burly boatswain's mate and a tough gun captain, but the act that stole the show and had Powlett's eyebrows raising was Bunce and Weems doing an excellent imitation of an indignant sergeant drilling a private soldier up and down, carrying a 'musket' of bamboo.

The afternoon raced by; the drink on offer was lambunog, specially fermented for the occasion the previous evening from palm-tree sap. This was served in half coconut shells, but its pale pink viscid appearance and stomach-turning strength gave pause to even the stoutest friend of the bottle.

Evening approached. The probable nearby presence of a volcano added violence to the red of the promising sunset, and Captain Powlett reluctantly got to his feet. 'Pipe all the hands,' he ordered. The shriek of the boatswain's calls pierced the din. With a bow, Powlett presented the contents of the sea-chest and bundles, and in the enthralled stillness the sailors left quietly.

Artemis put to sea immediately, subdued and replete with last-minute mangoes and bananas. Men looked astern as the ship heaved to the long Pacific swells, privately contrasting the spreading gaudy sunset behind them with the anonymous dark blue vastness ahead.

As days unbroken by any events turned into endless weeks of sameness, the sheer scale of the seas crept into the meanest soul. The winds were constant from the north-east to the point of boredom — an onrushing stream of ocean air that drove them on, still on the same larboard tack, the motion always an easy heave and fall, repeating the same rhythm, surging over the great billows in a gentle but insistent advance. Onward, ever onward, they angled south-eastward towards their vital intercept with the diametric meridian, the furthest they could possibly be from the land that gave them birth, and indeed further from any demesne that could be termed civilised.

Renzi watched Kydd staring out over the great wilderness of white-dashed azure and the immensity of the deep blue bowl of sky overhead.

'Dark, heaving boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity . . .'

he intoned softly, watching for reaction.

Kydd picked up his faded blue striped shirt, his favourite one, and resumed his stitching. The cotton had softened under the ceaseless exposure to sun and sea spray and now caressed the skin gently, but it would not take too many more patches. 'Aye, but Prewse had me at th' charts again last forenoon. You'd not be enjoyin' yourself quite s' much were I t' tell you that he brought down the workin' chart fr'm the quarterdeck, and - no flam - he quick sketches in that little island we saw earlier.'

'So?'

Kydd sighed. 'Nicholas, we have our sea-chart we navigate from, an' most of it is white, nothin' there. An' the Master is fillin' in the details as we go along. Does this give you y'r assurance they know where we are?'

Renzi hid a grin. 'Dear fellow, pray bring to remembrance the fact that we bear two natural philosophers - eminent gentlemen I am in no doubt — whose study is the earth's form. We are embarked in the foremost man-o'-war of the age, and a captain who is an ornament to his profession. What else would you have?'

Kydd's serious expression did not ease. He looked away over the vast waste of tumbling waters and replied, 'An' I'll bring jou to remembrance of what we say at church — "God save us and keep us — the sea is so big and our ship is so small.'"

Renzi kept silent and let Kydd resume work moodily with his needle. He gazed up. The mastheads gyrated against the sky in wide irregular circles, describing never an identical path but always a rough circle. The bowsprit rose and fell each side of the far horizon; the hull thrust and pulled at the body in its continual sinuous forward movement. Everything was in motion, all different, all the same.

'Grog's up soon — I'm going below,' he said, offhandedly. Kydd nodded but did not look up.

The gloom and odour of the berth deck bore on Renzi's spirit. The wearisome constancy of their lives was not congenial to his nature. He had found it necessary to ration his reading, which made the books infinitely the more precious. He had taken up Goethe's Prometheus, Cecilia's parting gift to him, and again found the restless subjectivity not to his liking - but on occasions he had seen her face emerge, ghost-like, from the pages, troubled, concerned. He persevered with the volume.

'Er, yer pardon, Mr Renzi.' It was the petty officer's mess-boy, Will, caught off-guard in his scrubbing of the mess table by Renzi's early return.

'No matter,' said Renzi, rummaging in his sea-chest for the Rousseau. He would spark an interest in his friend for the radical precepts of the philosopher, the supremacy of Nature as the measure of all things, which would lead him to an acceptance of the Noble Savage as the superior form of man. He brightened at the thought of how he would present these jewels of intellect to Kydd one night watch in the comfort of the lee of the weather bulwark. He found the Discours surles sciences et les arts and stuffed it into his ready-use ditty bag for later.

'Get yer arse outa here, skinker.' Haynes's grating voice preceded his wiry figure as he flung aside the canvas screen. Before the noon grog issue was not a good time to be about where Haynes was concerned.

Mullion arrived and sat opposite. His blue-black hair was compressed by the red bandanna he still wore after the hour's gun practice the larbowlines had just finished. He sat sullenly but quiet.

Crow entered and immediately undid the catches of their neat side locker, and passed down glasses. No one spoke until Kydd arrived with the pannikin of rum, which he gave to Crow. The copper measure filled and filled again as the tots were prepared under the gaze of the whole mess — half a pint of best West Indian rum to each petty officer, dark and rich.

The last of the rum did not fill the measure. Crow paused, and looked up. In the silence Haynes's voice held whispered menace. 'Kydd - he's bin bleedin' the monkey!'

It was nonsense, of course. But Kydd knew he would have to confront the challenge, face Haynes or back down. He didn't hesitate. His open face broke into a broad smile.

Almost immediately Mullion took it up and snorted in mock derision. 'Kydd? He's green enough, he'd let 'em gull 'im on the measures. I'll 'ave that.'

Crow's eyes flicked over to Haynes, but he passed the glasses round.

The rum was grateful to the stomach, even if it was suffused by the taste of half an ounce per man of lemon juice, insisted upon by Powlett as the most reliable method of forcing the consumption of the anti-scorbutic. The mood lightened.

'Fair makes me qualmish, seein' that devil-fish trailin' in our wake all day,' Mullion rumbled. The shark had been following them for days, seldom more than thirty yards astern, its great pale bulk shimmering a few feet below the waves.

Renzi spoke for the first time. 'It's interested in our gash only,' he said, referring to the mush of bones and organic refuse that was pitched overside after every meal.

'No, it ain't,' Haynes spat. 'It's waitin' - there's some soul aboard it's waitin' for, it knows who that is, an' it's a-waitin' fer the time that's written fer 'im.'

'So what d'ye want to do about it? Shark's not easy ter kill,' Crow responded mildly.

'We rigs a tackle aft, streams a line an' hook with a lump o' pork, and when it strikes, all the watch on deck tails on an' heaves it aboard, holus bolus.' His eyes gleamed. 'An then we kills it.'

Mullion grunted. 'Seen one caught that way - in Amphion frigate in Antigua. We was at anchor, an' had one o' them big white monsters fair 'n' square b' the throat. Couldn't land it on deck till we had a purchase around its tail, an' a full luff tackle on that — what a mauler!

'Near an hour it took, mates, afore we had it on the fore-deck, an' that's but half the story. Threshin' around right mad it was, near a ton o' weight smashin' an' snappin' with its great mouth open — yer could see right inside, teeth an' all.' He paused in open admiration. 'Then we has ter settle it. At it like demons we was, a-hittin' and a-slicin' -blood and gizzards all over the decks, twenty on us, an' still it weren't finished. OF Davey, he slips in the blood 'n' in a flash them teeth has a slice outa his hide.'

Mullion swayed back in his seat as if backing away from the sight. Taking another pull of his rum he grimaced. 'So help me, Joe, when we cut 'im open, 'is heart still beats right there in me hand - an' his tail still twistin' even tho' it's cut right orf his body!'

'What did yer find in the stomach, Jeb?' Crow wanted to know.

The table perked up in interest. Human skulls and gold watches impervious to stomach acids were not unknown. 'Last night's supper,' was the prompt reply, bringing reluctant grins all round.

In a reflective quiet the mess finished their rum. Haynes raised his head and looked squarely at Kydd, who gazed back forthrightly. 'So where are we at now, mate?' he asked, as if in atonement for his manner before.

Kydd noted with satisfaction the assumption that he was in on the officer-like secret of their position, but in truth he had no idea — latitude and longitude were not yet in his experience, which was mainly in the fair copying of Prewse's working notes.

'We're headed f'r the di'metric meridian,' he said, hoping that he had heard it right, 'an' we're still a few days off.'

'Di'metick who?' said Haynes, in disgust. 'Never heard any who's bin there.'

'The exact other side of the world,' broke in Renzi smoothly. 'When we get there and keep going, we're on our way back home.'

The table stared at him, the implications for their isolation clear. 'Been three thousan' miles on the same course since Christmas,' a shadow passed across every face, 'an' how far before our hook's down again?' Mullion said, in a low voice.

Renzi looked at the man steadily. 'From the meridian to the nearest point of mainland to the east is about a hundred and ten degrees, say twice as far again — but that's Cape Horn. We won't trouble to linger there, so after that we'll need to cross both the whole width and length of the Atlantic Ocean before our anchor touches ground again.' They looked at each other in silence, the swinging lanthorn in the gloom plucking shadows from their faces. Bearing her crew on into the unknown, Artemis's decks rose and fell, her movements as regular and unthinking as the rise and fall of a woman's breast.

Crow scratched his ear. 'There is somethin' by way of -compensations, mate.' His companions looked up.

'We're in Fiddler's Green fer women. These islands, yer c'n buy a woman fer a nail or a bit o' iron, they're hot even fer a pretty bit o' rag. All over yer like a rash, they'll be, have ter beat 'em off with a stick —'

Kydd saw Renzi's face tighten.

'- an' they goes at it like good 'uns, no hangin' back!'

Renzi suddenly stood; his face was pale and set. They stared at him, but he left abruptly.

'What 'n' hell's bit 'im?' Mullion said.

Kydd could not believe that Renzi's usual near inhuman control had slipped on a matter of common coarseness. He got to his feet hastily and went after his friend. He found him standing at the ship's side, gripping a shroud and staring intensely out at the infinity of blue sea. 'There are times when it is — save your presence, Tom — an insupportable burden to be closeted with such . . . savages, barbarians.'

'It was lewd talk, is all.'

'Not that! Never that! I have heard worse in the best company. No, what freezes my blood is that they believe themselves the civilised, enlightened society, and the savage your unredeemable barbarian. Nothing could be more offensive to me! Tonight we will talk of the Noble Savage of Rousseau, the irreconcilable dichotomy between nature and the artificial, perfectibility and man in a state of nature. My friend, your eyes will be opened. You will understand the sources of unhappiness and discontent in our ways, but as well you will come to know the potential human felicity in natural man.'