Artemis

Kydd saw that Renzi had been deeply moved and determined to pursue the reason further.

'Sir, I give you joy. We are at the furthest extremity of the world. We have intersected the meridian you so desire, and yet within span of your due date.' Powlett's words were dry and sarcastic, but they did not affect the satisfaction in Hobbes's face.

'My felicitations on your consummate maritime skills, Captain,' Hobbes rejoined, in like tones. 'And now we have but to select a suitable point of land - an island - somewhere along this meridian to erect our observation platforms.'

Powlett glanced stonily at Prewse.

'Sir, the islands are here far separated, days sailing one from the other,' Prewse said doubtfully.

'The nearest one, then. Do I have to make my meaning plainer?' Hobbes snapped.

'We may raise Nukumea before evening,' Prewse replied, nettled.

In deference to her condition, her increasingly sun-bleached sails and stretched rigging, Artemis did not tack about to her new northerly course, but took the longer, safer route of wearing ship. They would track up the meridian until they found a suitable location for the observations. Within hours a tiny dark-green smudge hoisted itself above the horizon. It was an unremarkable-looking island, a little lopsided with a peak to one side and the rest relatively flat. Nearer to, they saw that the flat part was in fact a palm-encircled inner lagoon, and on the flanks of the peak was a plateau of higher ground. Pacific surf beat continuously on the bright sandy beach in a dull roar that sounded above the shipboard noises.

'This may be suitable,' mused Hobbes, trying to steady a telescope against the moving deck. 'Yet I will trouble you for a boat to shore. I will work a lunar to satisfy myself of our longitude.'

'You have doubts of our chronometers?' challenged Prewse.

'Machines, sir, mere machines,' sniffed Hobbes, 'fit only to ease the life of the indolent - if they should fail, sir, you will be cast away. Trust the heavens, my dear fellow, in which there is the cold truth of the eternal to be won by the diligent.'

Prewse snorted.

'Clear away the starb'd cutter, Mr Party,' Powlett growled. 'Be so good as to accompany Mr Hobbes ashore, observe and report to me on return.'

Even a quarter-mile offshore the lead-line found no sea-bed, so instead of lying to anchor, the frigate heaved to with backed topsails to await the return of the boat. The eyes of the whole vessel followed its progress as it sailed cautiously along the beach. It rounded a point, but its sails still showed above the low grassy spit of land.

The angle of the sails changed when the boat checked its course and suddenly moved inwards. The sails disappeared behind a thicker clump of lofty palms. Reluctantly, the onlookers left in ones and twos, tiring of attempting to imagine what it was like ashore among the anonymous dark green verdancy.

It was trying, but there was no alternative but to 'stand off and on' — sail on a course out to sea for a space of time, then reverse course to arrive back in the original position, a feat of navigation in itself.

At dawn the next morning Artemis met her cutter as it emerged into the open sea. 'This will serve, Captain,' Hobbes said, as soon as he had crossed the bulwark. He hurried below, leaving Powlett glaring at the lieutenant.

'Mr Parry?' he snapped.

'Sir, the island would appear suitable for Mr Hobbes's observations. It is precisely on the line of the meridian. The open area you see there has a good prospect for the erection of the platforms, and it has adequate water.' Parry's eyes showed weariness from the night spent under the stars with the acerbic Hobbes.

'Thank you, Mr Parry,' Powlett conceded.

'And, sir, if the sea state will allow it, there is a possible careenage to the south.'

'Ah! Is there, b' God?' said Powlett, with interest. The chance to heave the ship down and get at the tropical sea growth on its bottom was too good to pass up. There was, besides, their previous brush with the coral, which would have damaged the thin copper sheeting and exposed the timbers beneath to attack by the pernicious teredo worm.

The cutter still bobbed alongside. 'I'll see for myself. We have some weeks here at least. God's bones, but we'll not waste it.'

Above the crude rafts fringing the new waterline of Artemis, now heaved over in the shallows in the lee of the island, the sight of her smooth, verdigris-green-blotched hull was breathtaking. She lay on her side, hauled down by tackles secured to her masts. They were reinforced by additional purchases and, stripped of all possible weight, the curves of her underwater section were now accessible.

It had been a backbreaking task, removing all the frigate's stores, equipment and fittings ashore, but the seamen had been diverted by their exotic setting and the feel of dry land underfoot.

Kydd had been strangely moved by the pristine shore, with its soaring palms whose feathery fronds tossed in the oceanic air. In the thick variegated undergrowth occupying the lower levels the vegetation was wild and profuse with orchids half a foot across. A moody silence inland beckoned mysteriously.

Powlett had been uncompromising, however: while the ship was being careened it was terribly vulnerable. He fretted, stumping restlessly about, driving the men relentlessly. The work was arduous, harsh scraping and swabbing from the rafts with the sea-growths and detritus raining down on them, the deep salty sea odour of it all contrasting fiercely with the rich, soft land smell.

Their sleeping place was on the higher open grassy plateau. Simple rectangular huts, made snug from the cooler night breeze with woven palm thatch in the walls, were all that was needed. The sailors slung their hammocks inside to be safe against any unknown ground-dwelling animals.

The officers had tents, while the scientists insisted on separate accommodation, in a capacious hut. At the highest point of the plateau, nothing more than a slight rise, the observatory took shape. The platform was stoutiy constructed and sheltering side roofs were prepared to keep the instruments safe against rain showers.

The few marines Artemis carried were posted at the broad landward edge of the plateau, facing into the unknown jungle. There was not the slightest sign of human occupation and the sailors padded to and fro up the short path from the beach without any fear. And above them all was erected the tallest flagpole they could contrive, and from it, a large ensign streamed out, conspicuous and confident.

At dusk, work ceased. A large cooking fire blazed up, a welcome beacon in the dark blue night. The bubbling pots wreathed cooking smells about the hungry men. Beyond was the looming black mass of the peak in the darkness.

'Damn fine vittles!' said Kydd, with satisfaction, as he gnawed at his bone.

Renzi grinned in the companionable glare of the fire. 'These are not the words you usually choose on board when we dine on this self-same dish.'

'No, but then I was never so sharp set/ Kydd mumbled back.

Renzi moved a few yards away from the fire to appreciate the brilliant coruscation of stars in the clear night. Over the peak would soon emerge the most splendid full moon, and Renzi felt a lifting satisfaction at his condition. The young moonlight silvered the trees and huts but, as well, limned a solitary figure standing to one side. Renzi could just make out that it was Evelyn, still as a statue and staring out to sea, his face in shadow.

He crossed over to him, stumbling in the black and silver tussocks. 'A glorious sight for an astronomer,' he said equably.

For a moment Evelyn did not reply. When he finally turned, Renzi could see that his face was drawn. 'It is — but you should comprehend that it is not my choice that I should be here.' He looked towards the fire and away again. 'The adventuring life is not to my taste — the privations, the boredom. My science is of a solitary kind, not to be improved by enforced socialising.'

'I do apologise if I intrude,' Renzi began.

Evelyn moved to bring Renzi's face into the strengthening moonlight. 'You appear to have a certain . . . sensibility, if I might be so crass as to remark it.'

'At present, the sea life suits my disposition. I have had my perspectives enhanced, my views of the human condition elaborated, and in fine it has been a salutary experience.'

'Then I felicitate you on it,' Evelyn said drily. 'The theories propounded by Mr Hobbes are elegant and have deep implications for natural philosophy, and this is why I am here in testing them, not for any love of distant voyaging.'

Renzi opened his mouth to interject, but Evelyn added swiftly, 'You know that William Gooch was my learned tutor in the astronomical arts. Now I have heard that his bones lie in O-why-ee, last year murdered by savages, as was Cook before him.' He lifted his chin and gestured to the invisible horizon. 'Have you any idea how inconceivably remote we are?' Renzi kept silent. 'La Perouse and his gallant company in the Astrolabe have been lost these five years. They could be cast away and waiting for rescue on any one of some thousands of islands — or then again their company might be destroyed, every one.'

'Wilson was cast up on the Pelew Islands some years ago,' Renzi felt impelled to say, 'and the native peoples there most hospitably treated him. I remember, he constructed a small vessel and sailed away and in it he conveyed, at their request, the son of the King of the Pelews. He attended at the court of King George, you will recollect.'

'And I also recollect that the poor wight breathed his last the next year in Rotherhithe and never did see his island again. No, sir! You, for reasons that must appear sufficiently cogent to you, have adopted this perilous sea life, but it is not congenial to me. Pray leave me to my science.' Evelyn folded his arms and continued to stare seawards.

Careening continued at first light on the other side of the hull. The carpenter was now able to give his full attention to the ruckled copper plating that marked their encounter with the coral.

'I shall not sleep peaceably until we are a-swim again, Mr Prewse,' Powlett muttered.

'I am sanguine that we shall be b' morning.'

'Then you'll oblige me by—'

Powlett stopped short at the sudden widening of Prewse's eyes. He swung round, alarmed. Around the point swept a native war-canoe, the savages rigid with surprise at the sight of Artemis.

Chapter 11

They'll be no more'n a thousan' of 'em down on us like screamin' banshees in a brace o' shakes,' the boatswain said drily. The canoe had taken in the scene of the helpless ship lying on her side, then made away with impressive speed.

Fairfax hurried over to Powlett's side. 'Sir, the Feejee is accounted an incorrigible cannibal,' he said, with a worried frown.

Powlett looked at him.

'They smokes the heads 'n' sticks 'em on a pole,' the boatswain added.

The gunner appeared and joined the group. 'Thirty-two long guns an' we can't use a one,' he said, his eyes squinting at the sandy point where the canoe had slipped out of sight.

'We've got one, maybe two days t' set the barky to rights — can't be done,' the boatswain said loudly. There was a general stir.

Powlett frowned: there was no glory in this kind of war. 'Set the boats a-swim, Mr Merrydew, and I desire a swivel in

the cutter.' The boats had been previously drawn up on the beach; now they would be streamed afloat, bows to sea and one with a small cannon. 'I want fifteen stand of muskets loaded and primed, larb'd watch stand to in two hours.' With a fierce look at his men he said, 'Rest o' you, back to work.'

It wasn't two, or even three hours, it was full evening when they came; suddenly around the point in a swarm, twenty-two impressive war-canoes and swelling numbers of tattooed warriors. The ruddy glare of torches in each canoe flamed dramatically in the dusky light, adding a devilish animation.

The sailors stood to arms immediately and lined the water's edge, knowing that if the savages established themselves ashore it would be a grave situation. His naked sword picking up the glow of the torches, Parry prowled in front of them, looking repeatedly to Powlett for the word.

'No man to fire without my express order!' Powlett thundered.

Ominously there was no noise from the canoes, no war-cries or yelling, just the silence of a murderous discipline. A conch shell sounded from the largest canoe, a low, powerful ululation that set the hairs on the back of the neck on end. The canoes slowly spread out in a wide semicircle, just out of musket range, clubs and spears plainly in sight.

'Here is y'r Noble Savage, then,' Kydd growled at Renzi, gripping his Sea Service musket and wondering how a cutlass would stand up to a spear or club after his single shot.

Renzi gave a half-smile. 'He is indeed. Can you not perceive his desperate need to defend his tiny, perfect kingdom against the rude impact of our advance?'

Snorting, Kydd replied, 'I c'n see 'em well enough — an' they think we're a poor vessel capsized an' cast up on the beach, which they think t' plunder.'

Lifting his head Renzi refused to be drawn. 'See how they remain out of range of the muskets. They have had dealings with "civilisation" before.' He lowered his musket a little and mused, 'They very likely call it a "fire-stick" or similar.'

There was a vigorous discussion in the largest canoe, which contained a very fat individual sitting in a chair. He wore a high, colourful headdress. A smaller canoe came alongside, the occupants stepped out, and a more slightiy built warrior climbed in followed by three others. Then it whirled about and paddled swiftly inshore.

'It's a parlay, Mr Parry,' said Powlett to the restless officer, 'and I want to win time for the savants and their damn observations.' The canoe headed for the centre of the beach, where the sailors reluctantly fell back. Powlett moved forward and waited, arms folded.

The canoe grounded with a hiss, and the warriors held the craft steady as the slightly built man stepped into the shallows. He wore just one garment, a sort of skirt falling a little below the knees, and had on a minor headdress. His slight build contrasted with the burly warriors taking up position on each side and he carried no weapons. The threesome paused at the edge of the water. A petty officer with a lanthorn appeared behind Powlett. The light appeared soft and gold compared with the red glare of the torches.

Slowly, the natives moved up the beach. Suddenly the slighter man hurled himself forward in a run. The two flanking him were caught off-guard. Raising their jagged bone clubs they sprang forward. Flinging himself at Powlett, the man choked something out unintelligibly. Powlett snarled, 'Present!' and all along the beach muskets brisded as they took aim at the warriors. They stopped in their tracks, milling about sullenly, and calling out in hoarse, angry phrases.

The sound of the man's tearing sobs sounded distressingly loud. He was curled into a foetal crouch at Powlett's feet, his body heaving. Horrified, Fairfax moved forward and pulled him to his knees. 'It's a — a white man!' he said, and let him drop.

Powlett did not bend. 'Can you speak English?' he snapped.

The man pulled himself together, lifting his head and looking from one face to another. He staggered to his feet, still staring at the silent faces. He reached out to touch Powlett's threadbare sea uniform. 'I can that, sir,' he said, his voice muffled. At Powlett's interrogative expression he straightened and cleared his throat. 'My deepest apologies, sir, for m' display,' he continued, his voice strengthening, 'but it's been four goddamn years since I clapped eyes on one o' my own kind.' The American accent was stilted, awkward.

'You are shipwrecked and now live among the savages?' Fairfax asked.

The man glanced back at the warriors menacing him from afar with their clubs. He edged up the beach, further into the protection of the armed sailors, and continued, 'Nathaniel Gurney, mate o' the Narragansett — as was. Th' year 'eighty-eight, near the end of a tarnation good season whaling, we follered a pod o' Right whales south into these unknown seas. We let go th' hook, thinkin' to wood 'n' water when we was tricked ashore by the natives. Only I an' two others was left aboard, me bein' mate o' the watch.' He gulped. 'Saw it all happen a-long shore, butchered th' whole crew they did, then they comes for us — we're not enough to work the ship, so we hides. When they finds us we think it's the end, but they laughs 'n' thinks it's a big joke. So, sir, I'm guest o' the Panga people, 'n' the private lap-dog of Tofa-maulu, the King.'

Powlett took it in impatiently. 'Will they attack, Mr Gurney?'

Gurney glanced at the warrior pair on the sand, threatening and glowering. 'I have your protection, Cap'n?' he said. 'Of course — you have my word.'

Facing the two warriors, Gurney tore off his headdress and flung it in the sand. This produced low groans from the warriors, who half-heartedly threatened to resume the chase.

'When we got word of a ship cast ashore an' all arsey-versey I thought she'd be a lost whaler, same as we, but when we rounded the point I knew we was wrong. Ye're a frigate at least.'

'His Majesty's Frigate Artemis, thirty-two guns,' said Fairfax.

'An' so I made me a break for it.' Powlett coughed meaningfully. 'Hold y'r horses, Cap'n, coming to it. Now they know I've gone over to you, they'll not parlay, but they'll listen to a deal. I'm gonna tell 'em that you're well armed and the smart move would be t' trade for what they wants. That way they gets it without anyone gets killed.'

'Very well. What articles?'

'Iron. Hoop iron off of barrels is best, they c'n shape that into knives. Very valuable, that is. I'll need a hand axe t' sweeten the King, but don't queer the market with too much.'

'And we get?'

'You've been at sea, what, months?' 'Get on with it!' Powlett growled.

'Fruits, plantains, yams, breadfruit — set y' up in finest fettle, they will.' Then Gurney added, with gravity, 'An' if you're figurin' on staying for a spell, it would be prudent, sir, to consider to build a stockade. Make this bit o' the island all yourn, just in case, if you takes m' meaning.'

The stockade neatly enclosed the observatory and living huts on the grassy plateau, the bamboo palisade extending down to the sea-shore on each end. The stakes would deter all but the most determined assault, and once Artemis warped out and moored in the sheltered waters of this leeward side of the island, the seaward approach would be secured.

The canoes that brought the foodstuffs were quite different from the lean war-canoes. Large catamarans with a central platform and matting sail, they extended over the bright sea from the larger island over the horizon, piled high with tropical harvest. They also brought cargo of quite a different kind.

'Sir — sir!' called Fairfax, breathless with anxiety and his run from the beach. 'Sir, there are women in those canoes -quantities of women!' The women, flowers in their hair and chattering excitedly in their lilting liquid-vowelled tongue, steered their craft in through the rippling eastward entrance to the lagoon and glided in to the far beach.

The men at work on the bulking hull stopped and watched the procession pass them in astonishment. A buzz of talk began, interspersed with ribald calls, which were returned in kind by the native girls, who waved back happily. The talk swelled to jollity then bawdiness.

'Haaands to muster by divisions!' The boatswain's calls shrieked discordantly, sending a cloud of small shrikes flying up from the thick vegetation.

On the sinuous length of beach in the lee of the grounded vessel the ship's company mustered under their respective officers, sailors in every sort of clothing in deference to the balmy warmth, most barefoot but all with some form of headgear against the strong sun. The officers were in the bare minimum of uniform and faded cocked hats, Rowley in shirt-sleeves and breeches, lace at his cuff and breast, while Parry's serviceable loose shirt was unbuttoned to the stomach.

Powlett strode up. Despite the tropic warmth he wore his blue coat and laced cocked hat, sword at his side.

'Still!' The boatswain's calls pealed a single blast, and the talking died away.

For long seconds Powlett held them with his eyes, the undercurrent of exhilaration among the men ebbing under his ferocious glare. 'While Artemis is heaved down, should an enemy sail find us here, we are dead men! I will not have us so for a single minute longer than necessary. There will be no rest for any officer or man until we are there,' he gestured seawards, 'at anchor, stores aboard and ready to fight!’ Pausing for emphasis he continued, in forceful tones, 'And if any man should think to straggle away, for any reason, I promise you most faithfully, I will take it to be desertion in the face of the enemy.'

The men glanced at each other. There was sense in what Powlett was saying. There were some unknown weeks left until the scientists had performed whatever it was they were doing. The women could wait.

'Master-at-Arms!' The nuggety figure stepped forward reluctantly. He doffed his hat, an incongruous move for he wore no shirt, and with his fair colouring his body had reddened uncomfortably. Powlett's eyes narrowed and his breath hissed between his teeth. 'Damn you, sir, get a shirt on!' he snapped, before ordering more loudly, 'The purser and his steward only to deal with the women. No savage this side of the stockade under any circumstances. Post your guard inside, and any man who disobeys my orders I want to see before me instantly.'

Despite their best efforts, nightfall saw Artemis still shore-bound; the big hawsers around her hull to tilt her over were gone, as were all but anchors laid out from the bows and stern. However, they would have to wait until the first light of day before they could safely ease the frigate once more into her element.

In the living huts the women's low calls reached clear and soft on the night air. They had not returned in their canoes and clearly expected some response from the strangers. Kydd lay back in his hammock and listened: the warmth of the evening, the violet clarity of the dusk, the night scents of orchids, all conspired against his peace of mind. He could see the blaze of stars peeping through chinks in the matting roof, and he knew that soon a full tropic moon would set the lagoon a-sparkle with silver behind the immense inky shadow of the ship. One of the women began a soft song — cool, dreamy, infinitely beguiling. He tossed fretfully.

A cross voice came from the gloom in the hut. 'Fer Cbrissakes!’

'Shut yer face, Lofty,' a second voice grumbled.

'An' all of yez, clap a stopper on it’ snarled another. The voices mumbled and stopped, but sounds of restlessness continued, the absence of deep, regular breathing betraying sleeplessness.

'Be buggered!' a voice said decisively. 'I've a mind ter do somethin' about it.' A dark shape detached from a hammock and crouched down.

'Don' do it, Toby,' another voice urged. 'Blackjack means it, mate.'

'See yez in the mornin',' the first voice replied, fruity with anticipation.

'Rouse out, rouse out — all the haaands’ Heave along there, lash 'n' carry, all the haaands!’ The cries of the boatswain's mates crashed into consciousness, dispelling fitful sleep and sending the sailors automatically out of their hammocks. Bleary-eyed, Kydd stood barefoot on the hut floor.

It was dawn, only just. Outside, the night was giving way to the first shafts of light stealing across the sky. The grass was dew-dappled, a strange feeling to Kydd's bare feet, and he shivered in the cool air. Then his brain registered that this was the first time that Powlett, always considerate of his men, had reverted to sea routine while they were out of the ship. Could it be that they had sighted strange sail in the night? Renzi's watchful face next to him seemed equally concerned.

Boatswain's calls shrieked: ^lHaaands to muster! Haaands to muster by open list!'

Incomprehension was swiftly replaced by insight as Kydd noticed a cynical smile pass over Renzi's face. Powlett was using the regular routine of mustering the men against their entry in the ship's books as a means of detecting absconders. Sure enough, Powlett stomped down to the beach and waited, grim-faced, for the officers to muster the men of their divisions. The Master-at-Arms waited next to him, Artemis’ detachment of marines in their full accoutrements drawn up behind.

The subdued grey light of pre-dawn gave way to the first signs of the golden flood to come by the time the muster was complete. Marching forward, the officers saluted gravely and muttered something to Powlett before falling back on their men. Powlett clamped his jaw and waited. The men, shaken by his controlled fury, waited also.

It did not take long. Down the path to the beach came all three absentees, shamefaced but with a hint of bravado in their gait. They separated to join their divisions, two to Rowley, the other to Parry.

'Take those men in charge, Master-at-Arms!' Powlett roared, above the cheerful morning chorus of the island. The Master-at-Arms gestured to his corporals who singled out the absentees and brought them defiantly forward.

Powlett did not even glance at them. His eyes were on his ship's company in a steely glare. 'Articles of War,' he thundered.

There was a stir among the men. With that single order Powlett had transformed the occasion from a familiar routine to the awful majesty of a trial — and not only this but a trial in which the evidence had all been heard. Now sentence would be pronounced.

'Article fifteen!' Powlett's voice was powerful and well suited to this duty, to judge and sentence the men of HMS Artemis. 'Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others . . . shall suffer death . . .' The words rolled on, the same grim laws they had heard read out a hundred times on a hundred Sundays. Powlett hardly looked at the words, and finished the recitation with a snarl.

'Do you wish a court-martial?' he asked, as was his duty and the sailor's right. There could only be one answer: if they did request one, they would be obliged to remain in irons until it could be convened. That would not be until they reached Spithead, months and months ahead at best.

'No?' Powlett looked at the men in contempt. 'Twelve lashes apiece. Strip!' It had happened too fast. The men stood dumbly, stupefied. 'Strip!' Powlett's voice cracked like a whip. The men began half-heartedly to pull off their shirts.

'Sir—' It was the boatswain's mate; his voice was small and apologetic.

'Then get one!' Powlett bawled. Crimson-faced, the man doubled away.

The Master-at-Arms came as close as he could behind Powlett and leant forward to whisper. Powlett did not turn but growled a response.

The men, stripped to the waist, were led up the beach to one of the palms rearing up at the edge of the sand. The first was secured with spun-yarn by his thumbs in a parody of the gratings that would normally be rigged for punishment aboard ship.

Powlett waited with a terrible patience for the boatswain's mate to arrive, breathless, with his bag. He nodded, and the marine drummer began a roll. It sounded tinny and unconvincing, the martial sound deadened by the expanse of sand. The boatswain's mate drew out the cat, and measured his swing. The drum continued furiously then stopped suddenly, just as the first blow landed to an agonised gasp. It was the first major punishment Kydd had seen in Artemis. He turned to look at Powlett and caught a flash of feeling briefly cross the hard features, a complex expression, but it could be described simply in one word: grief.

Artemis was upright well before noon, the sight of her truncated masts and hull riding high in the water driving Powlett mercilessly on. The frigate was kedged out to deeper water, all her boats afloat, every soul at work on rope, capstan or oar in the warm zephyrs.

Before the end of the afternoon watch the ship was rigged and the stores were returning aboard in a stream. In the setting sun the job was complete. Artemis was a man-o'-war once more, riding to two anchors and ready for sea.

'Mr Rowley!' Powlett rasped, his relief only partly concealed. 'You will take the first part of the larb'd watch and mount guard ashore over the observatory. You will be relieved in twenty-four hours.' Looking upward at the new-clothed masts he added strongly, 'The remainder will turn to, part-of-ship, and set this vessel to rights.' For the first time in days, there was a thin smile on Powlett's face.

There was no real need, but Kydd took another rope-yarn and added it to the three he was rubbing to and fro on an old piece of canvas on his knee. His work would eventually turn out to be a dolphin for the cro'jack, a simple stout rope with two eyes to prevent nip in the massive yard. There was scope for fine seamanship in the careful pointing to finish over the plain worming and parcelling underneath, and Kydd relished its exercise. 'Do ye not want t' step ashore, Nicholas?' he said to Renzi, similarly engaged next to him. Renzi raised his eyebrows, a sign Kydd knew to be the polite harbouring of a contrary view.

Kydd saw this and grinned. He had paid attention to Renzi's earnest exposition of Rousseau's theories, but his heart had prevailed over his intellect when he had heard of the philosopher's orphaning of his own children in the interests of science, and he had lost sympathy. 'Black Jack is down on us seein' the natives — do ye think he admires y'r Rousseau?' Kydd asked.

Renzi stared back frostily. 'As well you can conceive, he selfishly consults the interests of his own ship, that its warlike powers are not imperilled.' He laid down his yarns. 'Yet I must own to a powerful longing to see, just for a morsel of time, the outworking of pure Nature on humankind. Only that,' he finished lamely. Kydd suspected he was shying from the difficulty of justifying his desire to visit the shore in the face of baser motives.

They both glanced shoreward. 'We're to be guard tomorrow,' Kydd said neutrally. It had been hard seeing the first part of the larboard watch pile into the boats, laughing and boisterous, and shove off for the sweets of the land. But Rowley had called on the Master-at-Arms and three boatswain's mates to land with them — there would be no chance of tomfoolery.

Night drew in again. Most men chose to remain on deck in the warm tropic evening, smelling the cooking fires ashore but having to eat their own victuals, boiled to a mush by a sea-cook who had stood wondering as the unknown foods piled aboard for stowing.

As the shore became an anonymous dark mass and lanthorns were hung in the rigging, Powlett came on deck. He didn't waste time. 'Cutter's crew to muster - awaaaay larb'd cutter!' This meant Kydd, who was bowman of the duty cutter. It was already at the lower boom, and Kydd ran out along the spar in the darkness, and swung down the Jacob's ladder into the boat. He singled up on the painter, then hooked on alongside Artemis to allow Powlett to descend the steps and into the boat.

There was no talking as they pulled strongly ashore. Powlett's expression deterred even the effervescent Midshipman Titmuss. They passed through the dark, phosphorescence-streaked sea in a rush, and near to the ragged line of blue-white that marked the tide-line Kydd leapt into the shallows to guide the cutter in.

Powlett stepped rapidly along the thwarts, and splashed down into the shallow water. 'With me,' he said briefly to the midshipman and Kydd, and plunged forward, heading rapidly for the path.

They paused, just for a moment, where the grassy plateau began. Powlett glared at the men clustered around the fire, laughing and singing. Too late, the marine sentry stumbled up and made his challenge, his hat askew and musket without its bayonet. Without comment Powlett thrust past and towards the firelight. The singing died away as he was recognised.

'Mr Rowley?' he snapped. The men looked sheepishly at each other, cowed by the naked fury on Powlett's face.

One man, whom Kydd recognised as Hallison, detached himself and touched his forehead. 'I'll find him f'r you, sir,' he said, looking around before moving off into the darkness.

An ominous quiet descended, the crackling of the fire sounding loud, the men's eyes flicking about nervously. Titmuss seemed uneasy at the charged atmosphere and edged closer to the Captain. With a sudden flurry of movement Rowley arrived with Hallison, breathless and in lace shirt and breeches only, his cocked hat the wrong way around. 'Sir?' he said, in guarded tones.

Powlett drew a sharp breath, then said, with icy control, 'Be so good as to report your dispositions for the night, Mr Rowley.' There was a brief pause before Rowley began his report. 'Damn your blood, sir!' Powlett roared, interrupting the hesitant words. 'You treat your duty as a vile visit to a bagnio. Where are your sentinels? Why are these men in liquor?'

'Sir, I - I—' stuttered Rowley. Powlett leant forward, piercing Rowley with his eyes. 'You, sir, are under open arrest. Get back on board this instant.' In the shocked silence, Powlett swung around to the midshipman. 'Pass the word for Mr Parry. He is to assume Mr Rowley's duties ashore.'

Haynes was dismissive of the whole affair. 'Rowley has t' be a right lobcock, thinkin' to bam Black Jack like that.' Dice clattered to the table. Although gambling was a court-martial offence, there was no chance of a petty officer's mess receiving the wrong kind of visitors without warning. Haynes peered at the dice in the light of the guttering rush dip and snorted in disgust.

Picking them up and dropping them noisily into the leather cup, Mullion gave a glimmer of a smile. 'Can't blame a man f'r wantin' a fuckle,' he said, 'an' Rowley is a man fer the ladies, right enough. Lets his prick lead the way, 'n' he follows on behind.'

His throw was vigorous, and with a grunt of satisfaction Mullion let Haynes see the result before stretching out his hand to help himself to one of Haynes's littie store of worn dried peas. Haynes's own hand flashed out and clamped over Mullion's fist, crashing it to the table. Surprised, Mullion looked into Haynes's eyes. Haynes returned the look with smouldering intensity. With his other hand he deliberately picked a pea from his own store and carefully added it to Mullion's pile, his eyes never leaving Mullion's. 'Allow me,' he grated. Slowly he released Mullion's fist and sat back.

Uneasy, Kydd broke into the savage silence. 'Shipmates,' he said, 'what's this that y' quarrel over a dish of trundlers?' He stood over the motionless pair at the mess-table until Mullion glanced up and allowed a trace of a smile to appear before relaxing back. Haynes mumbled something in his grating voice and subsided.

It worried Kydd. It was rare for shipmates to clash in this way, and now within a short space tempers had flared again.

For want of somewhere to go he went forward to the galley. Renzi was proving a difficult friend while they were at the island, and seemed to want to be alone more often than not. Around the galley were the usual crowd, enjoying a pipe of tobacco and listening to yarns and songs.

Kneeling on the deck, eyes raised to heaven in mock reverence, was a young Irishman. His round face wore a mournful aspect as he chanted an endless ditty:

Bryan O'Lynn and his wife, and wife's mother,

They went in a boat to catch sprats there together,

A butt-end got stove and the water rushed in —

We're drowned, by the holy, says Bryan O'Lynn.

Bryan O'Lynn and his wife, and wife's mother,

They went with the priest to a wake there together,

And there they got drunk and thought it no sin —

It keeps out the cold, says Bryan O'Lynn.

Bryan O'Lynn and his wife, and wife's mother

They went to the grave with the corpse all together,

The earth being loose they all then fell in —

Bear a hand and jump out, says Bryan O'Lynn.

His audience listened in happy attention, the verses following one after the other in a respectful monotone, until a slight change in tone indicated the final stanza, which was finished in a rousing climax:

Bryan O' Lynn and his wife, and wife's mother,

Resolved then to lead a new life together,

And from that day to this have committed no sin —

In the calendar stands now, sir, saint bryan o'lynn!

Hearty chuckles met this, and Kydd felt better.

At dawn Powlett went ashore again, grim-faced and irritable. Stomping up the path he nodded curtly at bored sentries and met Parry coming from the living hut. He was drawn and haggard and moved wearily. 'Report!' snapped Powlett.

Parry pulled himself together. 'I am truly sorry to say that some of the men straggled in the night.'

'How many?' demanded Powlett. 'I'll have the skin from their backs, the rogues!'

'Twenty-nine.'

Powlett stopped, aghast. This was over half the watch. His hands twitched convulsively on his sword hilt before he turned abruptly on his heel and trudged down to the boat again. He was still silent as he climbed the side of his ship. Acknowledging the boatswain's calls as they piped the side, he disappeared into his cabin.

Later in the forenoon Lieutenant Rowley was summoned. He was seen to enter Powlett's cabin with a truculent expression. Words were heard from inside, hard and angry words. Rowley left with a set, pale face, stalking down to his cabin. The rest of the forenoon Powlett stayed behind his closed door.

The atmosphere aboard Artemis became strained and moody, radiating out from Powlett's closed door. At noon, the hands were called aft by Parry; the Captain was not present. In an expressionless voice Party told the ship's company they would revert to three watches for liberty, one of which would be retained for guard duties, the remainder having the freedom of the island. It did not need much reflection to realise that Powlett had capitulated to the situation.

Renzi stepped out up the overgrown path inland towards the naked peak that towered ahead. Kydd followed behind, puffing at the pace Renzi was setting. They reached a broad ledge of bare rock that allowed them to look back on where they had come from. 'Ah, is not that sublime?' Renzi stood on the lava rock as far forward as possible, unconsciously taking the pose of a Romantic hero, one foot braced forward, a noble brow shielded by his palm as he gazed out over the dramatic downward sweep of the foliage.

Kydd was grateful for the breeze. The day was sunny and close in the lee of the peak. Odd odours from the island vegetation and the warm smell of sun on the volcanic soil filled his nostrils. 'What price y'r Diderot now?' Kydd responded happily, only hazily aware of the philosopher's existence, but knowing that it would give Renzi pleasure that he had remembered their conversation. What the man had actually said he couldn't recall.

Renzi turned on him, his face ablaze. Kydd recoiled in dismay. 'Yes, you're right! That is the essence of it! We stand morally condemned - "Man is not content with defeating Nature, he must triumph over it!'"

'Why, yes, o' course, this is very right,' Kydd agreed, and scratched his leg where some unknown insect had made itself known. Renzi had his oddities, but his emotional tone of late was not in character and Kydd felt some disquiet.

They resumed their upward climb and the bare grey rock of the peak presented close before them as a steep escarpment. They cast about, looking for a passage, but for some time there had been no discernible track through the scrubby vegetation. Then Kydd spied a break in the rock-face, and when they achieved this, they found that they could now see both sides of the island.

The far side was much steeper, and being to the weather side of the island the ocean surged in, smashing down on the foreshortened beach in a ceaseless assault, a constant mist of spume in a haze above the surf. Kydd could not make out anything of interest. The anonymous riot of greenery stretched away unbroken in both directions. A small bluff projected into the sea at one point, its red soil distinctive, and a small beach lay within its hook — but that was all.

Back to leeward the vista was more satisfying, the shallows where they had careened were easily visible, and towards the other end of the island, they saw the crescent of a wide lagoon. Over a dozen canoes were drawn up on its inner beach, and one or two smaller ones lay unmoving in the lagoon itself. The occupants were fishing. Close inshore was Artemis, her trim lines sleek and satisfying; she lay to both anchors and appeared rock-like still, although Kydd knew her to be lively and responsive to the modest swell. The plateau was in plain sight below them, much closer to the beach than Kydd remembered, and on it within the stockade were tiny figures working on the huts and the observatory.

His eyes strayed to the beach between the lagoon and the plateau path. There were women down there, with their wares laid out, and he could see the unmistakable forms of sailors mingling among them.

A splendid situation for our repast!' Renzi said, hardly able to take his eyes from the abundance of nature. Kydd's cloth bundle was added to the common pool, and soon they were feasting on succulent fish cooked in plantain leaves, ship's biscuit and nameless hunks of a grey, starchy substance. They gorged on fruit to conclude, and Renzi apologetically poured rum and water for their wine.

They lay back, eyes closed, letting the airy warmth and perfect stillness work on their spirits. 'So, we are now at the far side o' the world,' Kydd said lazily. Just bringing out the words, however, brought a flash of memory. Here was Guildford high street, the old family shop now a stationer's, the crabby windows filled with patriotic and satirical mezzotints. Gentlemen with ladies on their arm were passing by. He mentally corrected the image; the idyllic weather here had induced a summer scene in England, but of course right now it was winter, and it would be a different prospect. His mind drifted. Winter in Macao had been cold, but quite bearable. In fact, he and Sarah — he caught himself at the cold wash of remembrance, her face returned to the centre of his vision, tear-streaked and pale.

He jerked awake and sat up. 'Shall we return to the ship, d'ye think?' he said, scrambling to his feet. He yearned for the simplicity of the human company to be found in Artemis.

'No,' said Renzi, decisively. His eyes remained closed.

Kydd hesitated. 'The afternoon is passing . . .'

'I have no intention of returning,' Renzi said. His eyes flicked open and he looked up at Kydd. 'I cannot easily bring to recollection a greater peace and exaltation of mind than this prospect brings — I shall remain here until driven back by nightfall.' He looked steadily at Kydd, the lines each side of his mouth lengthening.

'Then I have t' return without company,' Kydd said.

'Do so, my friend,' Renzi responded, without a pause.

Kydd waited, then smiled reluctantly. 'Wish y' joy of y'r Nature,' he said, and turned down the path.

Reaching sea-level he moved towards the figures on the beach. He waved to Doud, who had a basket that he was carrying towards the informal market. Doud waved back cheerily. Kydd pressed on and saw his first native at close quarters — a man standing expressionless under a palm gazing at the chattering groups. His brown, oiled body was tall and confident and he wore a fine-patterned bark-cloth skirt, which extended from a broad woven girdle nearly to his ankles. Kydd offered an uncertain smile, which brought no response.

He walked past, approaching the women of the market who sat on palm leaves laid in a criss-cross. Nut-brown and strong-limbed, their noses broad and flat, they had a vitality and animal suppleness. They laughed and chattered and threw looks his way that were unmistakable. ^‘Ohe, papalangi’ they teased, and Kydd grinned.

He passed by, heading for the lagoon. It was an idyllic prospect, utterly peaceful and lazy under the tall palms. He was drawn to the canoes pulled up on the sand. They were fine-lined and beautifully finished. He fingered a furled sail, made of a woven matting; it would not stand a gale at sea, but he guessed that the canoe would head for the nearest island if it came on to blow. They would probably be wet and waterlogged in the short seas of the English Channel, but here in the broad Pacific they would respond to the spacious swells by riding up one side and down the other, fast and dry.

His attention was on the canoe and he wasn't aware of the presence of another until he felt a gende touch on his arm. Straightening, he turned to see a native girl hesitandy offering him half a coconut filled with water-juice. Her face was open, and her quick smile widened readily at Kydd's shy response. 'Why, thank 'ee,' he said, uncomfortably aware that her hand still lay on his arm. 'Er - is this y'r boat?' He accepted the shell and tasted. The cool young juice was nectar, and he drank again.

^‘Tamaha? she replied happily. She wore an ankle-length coloured skirt similar to those of the men but her upper body was modesdy concealed by a string of pretty dried leaves and rushes hanging down from around her neck.

'Sorry, I don't understand,' Kydd said, and smiled back.

She giggled, then laid her hand on her breast. 'Tamaha? she repeated, then touched Kydd's breast.

'Oh, well, it's Tom, Tom Kydd,' he said, conscious that she did not withdraw her hand.

‘Ah— Tonki? she whispered, and stroked his shirt curiously. He looked down on her black hair and caught the scent of her, a head-swimming blend of coconut oil and sandalwood. Kydd cleared his throat and looked around. The man under the palm was gone, and their conversation had attracted not the slightest bit of attention from the few still on the beach.

'Urn, Tamaha,' he began, and fell back on his previous piece of small-talk. 'This is your canoe?' he asked. She seemed puzzled, so he gestured meaningfully at the craft. Her face cleared, and she slid the canoe easily into the still water of the lagoon.

He stood in confusion. 'Ohe, Tonki!' she called, holding the canoe still and beckoning. Kydd found himself moving forward to her. Splashing in the bath-warm water, he climbed in and settled in the after part, laughing in embarrassment.

Tamaha joined in the laughter, and pushing off the outrigger, climbed lithely aboard. She plied her paddles easily and the canoe skimmed out over the water.

It glided to a lazy stop in the middle of the lagoon and Kydd looked down through the crystal water to a riot of colour not thirty feet down, a profusion of tumbling growths in an undulating underwater plain, the most beautiful landscape he had ever seen. He looked up to see Tamaha regarding him seriously over her shoulder. He grinned back, his reserve melting.

She lowered her head, then fumbled in the forward recesses of the canoe and came out with a palm-leaf bundle. Eyes mischievous, she lay back slowly until her head lay cradled between Kydd's thighs, and her bare arm arched over to offer him a dark-coloured piece of fruit. He accepted slowly and bit into it. Her eyes sparkled up at him and he felt desire mount in a betraying dull flush. He looked over the side again while he collected his thoughts, and she jerked upright again in mock exasperation.

Thoroughly discommoded, he studied the coral more closely, at which she stood up in the canoe. She looked at him once, then in a single breathtaking movement she dived into the lagoon. Amazed, Kydd gazed deep down into the water, seeing her brown body picking its way through the coral garden, her garments floating erotically free.

She found what she wanted and surfaced, water sparkling on her skin, her black hair clinging. It was a beautiful small white shell, empty and delicate, and as it took the air it became more and more intensely white. She stared at him anxiously; he accepted the gift reverently and without thinking held it first to his bosom and then kissed it before looking back into her eyes.

She retrieved her paddles and the outrigger moved purposefully through the crystal water, past the lush coastline towards the end of the crescent. It performed a neat curve and crunched up on the beach. Kydd got out and helped pull the craft clear of the water.

Without a pause, she held him by the hand and pulled him towards a rocky point. 'Lahi hakau loaloa’ she urged. They ran together over the wet sand and up to a tiny track over the rocks. It wound around the point and past a beach to the weather side of the island, an undercut ledge of sea-roughened lava. They stood together, watching the waves approach in a long, easy heave and swell.

Suddenly, Kydd was aware of an exhalation, a hoarse, laboured breathing out like a huge whale. There was a sudden thump and within seconds a giant gout of water roared up beside them and fell, soaking them. Tamaha laughed excitedly, her hair streaming. Heart hammering with shock, Kydd saw that she had lost her modesty in the deluge, her breasts were now quite bare. The water shot up again and descended once more.

As it receded Tamaha gripped his arms and looked into his face. She pointed to the blowhole once with emphasis, then slid her hands up both sides of his hips and brought them up, palms together. Kydd drew her face towards him, and gentiy kissed it. She looked up with a dazzling smile, and they walked hand in hand to a grassy patch in front of a cave. It was the most natural and the most desirable thing in the world. She drew him down and they lost themselves in passion.

Hand in hand they returned to the beach, and lay together in sleep under the tall palms, letting shadow patterns dance across their bodies and a warm zephyr play softly over them.

When Kydd awoke, Tamaha was gone, and the sun had descended in the sky. He sat up. A griping in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten.

He ambled along the beach and saw Mullion, who lifted a hand in recognition and passed out of sight into the thick undergrowth. Closer to, he realised that something was going on there. He followed Mullion along the path to a clearing. On a fallen palm-tree sat Haynes and standing next to him was Crow, who held a gunner's notebook and pencil. Mullion crossed to Haynes, and after a low conversation he was handed an article, which he hastily pocketed.

Curious, Kydd went over. Haynes looked up. 'Kydd, yer wouldn't be lookin' fer favours now, would ye?'

'Wha . . .'

'Petty officer an' messmate pays th' same.' Haynes's gravelly voice held no warmth. Kydd was clearly missing something; he hesitated. Cundall entered the clearing and leered at Kydd, then went straight to Haynes.

'Two on yer account.' Crow sucked his teeth and made an entry in his notebook.

'C'n yer tell us what's the goin' rate?' Cundall asked, pocketing two large iron nails.

'One nail fer short time, bit o' hoop iron fer all night in,' Crow said.

'Then I'll also 'ave some iron,' Cundall said, 'cheaper in th' long run.' A hacked off piece of barrel iron emerged from the sack Haynes had under the tree trunk, and changed hands. 'Surprises me you should need persuasions,' Cundall said to Kydd, and left.

At this rate Artemis would be bled of her stores, thought Kydd, but knew in his heart that he would find it difficult to condemn. 'Not t'day,' he told Haynes, and left.

At the other end of the lagoon three men rolled along the beach, one clutching a bottle. Kydd grinned at their antics. 'Heigh-ho!' said John Jones, gesturing with his bottle at the canoes drawn up on the sand. 'An' it's haaands to muster — man the larb'd cutter!' The others laughed and cackled. 'Look alive, yer parcel o' rogues!' His imitation of Parry was nearly perfect.

Jones went down the beach to one of the canoes. 'Launch-ho, mates,' he called, making ready to slip the craft into the warm lagoon. The others lurched up; a paddle around the limpid waters would be just the ticket. 'An' it's one, two, six an' a heeeavvy!’ he roared. The canoe shot into the water, but slewed sideways, sending Jones backwards into the water. The others roared with laughter but the flailing man suddenly screamed - a deathly, inhuman shriek that paralysed Kydd. The laughter fell away into uncertainty, the men staring fuddled and confused at the thrashing man.

Kydd hurled himself down the beach and into the water. As he splashed to the man he saw a nondescript fish flip away on the bottom; warty, ugly, the colour of mud but with glaring red eyes and a gaping mouth that grotesquely opened and closed. The man's body arched out of the water with pain, and Kydd's attempts to drag him from the water were hopeless. 'Y' useless bastards! Bear a hand here!' he screamed.

They held down the unfortunate sailor on the beach and tried to find the source of the excruciating pain. Kydd ripped off his shirt and saw it — two small red marks under the nipple with a rapidly whitening outer area. The man's eyes bulged and his arms beat on the sand. His breathing turned to deep gasps, and despite the restraining weight of several men, his hands scrabbled at his throat. His screams deteriorated to hoarse croaks. Kydd saw the whitened area extend over the chest as the man suffocated in front of him; the body drooped with occasional muscle twitches and the light departed from his eyes.

The sun still beamed down, the breeze ruffled Kydd's hair playfully, but out of nowhere death had come to claim his own.

Chapter 12

Kydd stumbled up the path to the cooking fire, its ruddy glow a beacon in the gathering dusk. He could hear the distinctive twang of Gurney's American accent and saw that he was at the centre of a small group of seamen sitting together. He hurried to join them, still shocked by what he had seen, and needing human company.

'Abe, yer must've had a such a time of it - women, all the vittles a man c'd want, nothin'. to do. Why d'ye want ter go, mate?' asked an older sailor.

'Aye - it's paradise here,' added Doud. Gurney didn't answer at first, looking from one to the other with his head oddly cocked to one side as if in distrust of his audience. 'Yer think it is, shipmates?'

'Yair, paradise right enough,' said a young foretopman. Leaning forward, Gurney responded passionately, 'I grant ye, the weather's always top-rate, an' the vittles are there fer the takin', but think on this. You don't have nothin' to do! A-tall! Yer want anythin', yer reaches out an' picks it off a tree or somethin'. You never works, never gets the satisfaction,

each day th' same. Never see y'r own kind, never speak to a Christian soul — and the rest o' the world just ain't there, fer all ye hear of it. Fer all I know, King Louis may've come ter take back his Louisiana from the Spanish.'

Sardonic looks were exchanged. 'No, cuffin, King Louis ain't no more,' Doud told him gently. 'Frogs, they has a revolution o' their own, an' separates 'im from 'is 'ead.'

Gurney's eyes widened. 'Then how . . .'

'They has some sort o' citizens', er, parleyment - the gentry got their heads lopped off an' all, see.' Doud was clearly having difficulty with the idea that someone could be ignorant of the tumult of blood that was convulsing the world.

'And we're at war with the Crapauds — they're hard t' beat on land,' said Kydd, 'but they can't best us at sea,' he added, with feeling. He thought over other events of the last four years — the shocking mutiny on the ship Bounty, the Terror in Paris, George Washington becoming the first President of America, these things Gurney would learn about in time.

'Yeah, but me here with a bunch o' heathen, always feudin' and fightin', struttin' up 'n' down like.' He stared gloomily at the remaining figures on the beach. 'I seen sights'd make yer blood run cold. They're murderin' heathens, shipmates.'

Kydd thought of Renzi. High-minded thoughts would be no proof against the savagery of the warriors should they grow tired of peaceful trade. His thoughts drifted back to Tamaha. He would see her again tomorrow. Would she be thinking of him now? Would he tell Renzi of her? He knew that he was not immune to feminine charms — their rivalry over Sarah Bullivant had shown that. Sarah! The name caused a stab of feeling, but he had now detached that part of his past into a self-contained unit that carried her memory.

Darkness lay softly over the island, and Kydd finished the last of his meal, a boiled concoction of salt beef and yam served in a half coconut shell. Still no sign of Renzi. A buzz of talk washed about him. He lay back on the grass and gazed at the stars, thinking of nothing in particular, just enjoying the night air.

Drowsy, he went to the living hut. Their hammocks were still slung and the matting sides were rolled up to give an airiness to the warm night. As he climbed aboard his hammock Kydd saw a dark form by Renzi's position. 'Nicholas?' he called softly. The form froze. 'Is that you back with us?'

'Yes,' said Renzi shortly.

Kydd sensed a bridge had been crossed. 'Did you . . .'

'I had the transcendent experience of communicating with the savages in their innocence,' Renzi said stiffly.

So there would be no revision of Rousseau's Noble Savage. Kydd wondered what form the communication had taken, given the total lack of a common tongue. 'John Jones was taken by a devil fish,' he said. 'It was the strangest thing y' ever saw, just a single bite an' he was destroyed — Nathaniel Gurney says it was the Scorpion Fish, very bad. An' he also says as how the savage are treacherous heathens, given to murderin' each other and—'

'Gurney is a fool,' Renzi spat, 'an ignorant wastrel who, like us, is causing the foul corruption of civilisation to lay its dead hand on these islands.'

'How so?' Kydd replied, with heat. 'D'ye despise even y'r own society?'

Renzi paused, and Kydd could hear his angry breathing. 'I beg — we will talk no more of it,' Renzi said, his voice thick.

Kydd bit off his reply and settled in his hammock.

He awoke late with a muzzy head after a night of conflicting dreams. He looked over the edge of his hammock to Renzi's, but his friend had left — as he was entitled to, Kydd reminded himself. Their spell of duty did not begin until noon.

Tamaha was nowhere to be seen, and he didn't feel like going down by the lagoon or taking the steep climb to the peak. He wandered up to the observatory platform. The observations had begun, and Kydd watched Evelyn's total concentration at the gleaming brass instruments and his quick scrawls as he added to his growing pile of papers. Hobbes glowered at the inquisitive onlookers and continued his dour ministrations.

'You, sir — yes, you!' It was Evelyn, beckoning to him while he remained bent at an eyepiece. Kydd came obediently, knowing that Evelyn was not given to idle whims. 'Be so good as to advise me, Mr Mariner. My glass has a propensity to tremble and sway in this rather forthright breeze. It makes a ruination of my figures.' He waved at the slender brass length of his instrument up on its wooden platform.

Kydd saw how the long optical piece was being affected by its length. 'I believe y' have here a mizzen gaff right enough, yet wanting its rigging.' He pursed his lips. 'I'll return with the necessaries.' Evelyn nodded, bemused at the mysterious metaphor.

Returning with a hank of spun-yarn, Kydd capably set up a pair of vangs each side of the instrument leading to its outer end from the stout support posts of the platform. He contrived a deadeye on one side, which allowed him to tighten the 'rigging' to a harp-like tautness. 'There,' he said, with satisfaction. 'Do y' take a look through y' optics now.'

Evelyn bent and took the eyepiece again. 'Ah! The very wonder of the age — here we have a rock-like stillness.' He relinquished the instrument and stepped down. 'My thanks, Mr Mariner.' Noticing Kydd's interest he added, 'We have in these papers an infinitely precious aggregation of data, which when matched with simultaneous observations in Greenwich will settle once and for all the precessional paradox.'

Nodding wisely, Kydd noticed the care that Evelyn took in replacing the papers in a polished wooden box. No doubt this contained a final product of why the frigate had travelled so far to this remote region.

'I have not seen your friend, er . . .'

'Nicholas Renzi.'

'Just so. Presumably he is distracted in making sport with the ladies of these islands.'

Kydd tried to suppress a smile. 'He is not. He has a hankerin' after the theories of Mr Rousseau, an' believes that we corrupt the savage by our civilisation.'

Evelyn's eyebrows rose. 'Rousseau? You have debated him?' He looked out over the glittering blue ocean and continued, 'For myself, I cannot bear the bigot or his loose thinking, but in this instance I am inclined to believe he is right, we are a plague on these people. The sooner we are sailed the better I shall like it.' He swung up to the platform again. 'Pray excuse, I must return to my work.' Kydd knew he was dismissed from Evelyn's universe.

Parry was not the officer to accept weak excuses. Absence from place of duty was a dereliction that could not and would not be forgiven. The offender would get no sympathy from the rest of the duty watch either, for they had probably themselves been torn from willing arms to report. Kydd fretted for Renzi, who had probably wandered off in search of some marvel of nature. Possibly he had found an old native philosopher and was carrying on a deep conversation by signs. Now he was on report to the Captain who would stop his liberty or worse.

Duty ashore was not arduous. There were stands of muskets to hand, and the stockade to patrol, but against whom it was not clear. Companionable tasks included assisting the cook to prepare the evening meal, repairing the hut matting and the like. Less companionable was the sentry-go, which involved porting a heavy musket in solitude along the length of the stockade.

Supper was served out, and Kydd considered whether he should save some of his ration for Renzi. Darkness stole in, conversations became desultory and those free to do so retired to the living huts. As the moon rose, huge and magnificent, over the craggy line of the peak escarpment, it charged every object with a deep silver radiance and created myriad mysterious shadows.

Back on sentry-go, Kydd paced slowly along the stockade, peering over the top across the grassy slopes, which disappeared into shadow at the woodland edge. Nothing moved; the low soughing of the night breeze and creaks from the timbers of the stockade were all that fell on his senses. He shifted the musket over his shoulder and padded on.

'Hsssst!' It was the beach sentry, hurrying up the path. He gesticulated sharply. Kydd hurried down to the man, who was in grave breach of discipline by leaving his post. 'Come down to th' beach,' the man whispered urgently.

Kydd knew that there must be good reason he should go, but if he was caught — he looked back along the line of the stockade. The other sentinels were indistinct dark blobs in its shadow. He turned and plunged down the slope. At the point where the stockade met the sea he saw two figures standing together in the moonlight, which lay still and liquid on the pale beach.

'Well met, my friend.' It was Renzi. His voice sounded gentle and noble but Kydd approached in apprehension for what he might find. Renzi was in native dress, a waist-length skirt and headdress of woven flowers. Next to him was a native woman dressed similarly and looking at Kydd with a palpable tension.

'Tohe-umu,' said Renzi, introducing her. 'She will be my wife when I settle here after you have gone.'

Kydd was struck speechless. Settle? What utter madness! To cut himself off from his own kind, to . . .

'I wish to farewell you now, to let you know that I have found the contentment and fulfilment I have always craved — a union between Nature and Man that will purify and scarify the soul of the gross humours that come from artificial society.'

Finding his voice, Kydd blurted, 'But how will you live? You have no means, no—'

'There is no need for money or anything else. We shall build a dwelling place, and all around shall be the bounty of the good earth.' His tone strengthened. 'And I shall bring into the world infants who will learn humility and awe at the altar of Nature - and they then will enter their true inheritance.' He turned to the woman and tenderly spoke a few native words. Her tense expression dissolved into one of deep affection that Kydd saw had no room for others.

Renzi held out his hand awkwardly. Kydd's thoughts chased each other. Once Artemis had sailed away Renzi would be reckoned a deserter for the rest of his days.

There was no chance that they would ever see each other again. It was staggering — Renzi's fine mind wasted in this incomprehensibly remote piece of the earth. It was an insane impossibility to see Renzi tilling the soil, reasoning with the warriors. Then probably a lonely death among the savages. It was lunacy . . .

'I go now, be so good as to remember me in the years to come, dear friend,' Renzi said, in a low voice. His head fell, but only for an instant. He fixed Kydd with a long look, his deep-set eyes moist, then turned and marched away.

Kydd balanced easily on the main topmast cap, a hundred and twenty feet high with only the main royal mast above him. Just below, Doud, Pinto and others were seizing a futtock stave to the topmast shrouds ready to pass the catharping. They knew their job backwards, and Kydd had no need to intervene. While they had accepted his elevation to petty officer with equanimity he found it agreeable to his natural temperament to lead with a light touch.

Far below on the quarterdeck stumped the foreshortened figure of Powlett, as irascible as a caged bear but energised by the prospect of getting to sea again. They had reverted to one watch in three on liberty, the other two watches devoted to work preparing for their voyage home in the fearsome roaring forties of the Great Southern Ocean. The only ocean to encircle the world completely, its stormy seas swept huge and unobstructed, and if there were any skimping on this work they might disappear from human ken for ever.

At this height it was possible to see much more of the island, the variegated greens of the plateau and lower slopes and the blotchy bare rock-faces of the peak. Kydd couldn't see beyond the escarpment and wondered which part of the island Renzi would select for his native home. He would deeply miss Renzi, and the first sea-watch especially. He had heard that the scientists had nearly completed their work, and there was a very real prospect that they would put to sea in a day or so; it would be all over by then.

Kydd touched the outer tricing line — it was worn and hairy with use, like much of the running rigging. They had only so much in the way of sea stores, and their stock of the aromatic Stockholm tar used to preserve the standing rope had to be eked out. On the fo'c'sle the sails were being roused out and checked; the action of sun and salt water on canvas had made the flax deteriorate.

It was strange to think of high latitude sailing again, of cold and blustery winds and harsh conditions while they lay at anchor here in this balmy pleasantness. However, Kydd had a suspicion that he might grow increasingly restless at the relentless sameness of life on a South Sea island. Then he remembered that this was how Renzi would be spending the rest of his life.

They finished the job, worming and leathering for better resistance to chafing instead of the usual parcelling and serving. If there were any problem in the south latitudes it would be dangerous to send men up to this height. Kydd slid to the deck by the backstay, avoiding the rows of cannon balls from the shot locker laid out in the sun for rust-chipping by the gunner's party. Powlett would not delay in having them all sweating at gun exercise just as soon as they made the open sea.

It was mid-afternoon when Powlett ordered the cutter away for his check ashore on the duty watch and the progress of the scientists. Kydd took his position forward and the cutter left the ship's side, pulling strongly to the shore. Powlett performed his usual run over the thwarts to the beach, and Kydd had to move fast to keep with him.

Powlett strode among the duty seamen, growling an admonishment here or a word of encouragement there. His greeting to the scientists was courteous but brief, and he returned quickly to the path back to the boat.

Suddenly Kydd stopped in his tracks and Powlett cannoned into him. 'What the devil are you about, sir?' Powlett exploded. Holding up a hand Kydd strained to hear — a subliminal sound that had cut right through to a primal sense of danger. There was an indistinct commotion, and a midshipman of the watch raced down to Powlett and saluted. His face was pale with shock. 'Sir — a native woman all covered with blood, an' two men!'

Powlett's voice hardened. 'What has this to do with us? Are we to judge in their domestic disputes?'

'Sir - no, sir, it's a hell of a rout up there, sir.'

'Very well, I'll come,' said Powlett crossly. They retraced their steps, and soon caught the harsh, unhinged barks of a woman in the extremity of terror. Powlett hastened towards the growing crowd around her. She was sprawled in the grass under the stockade, hair matted and beslobbered with gore. The two men appeared untouched, but crouched, eyes bulging as they stared wildly about them. 'Send for — send for the American,' snapped Powlett.

'Gurney, sir,' said Fairfax, wringing his hands.

'Do it!' snarled Powlett.

When the woman saw Gurney approach, she shrieked at him, her arms held a-splay. The men began to babble loudly. Gurney listened, asked some terse questions and tightened his expression.

'First thing I'm gonna do is get aboard o' yer barky, an' I advise you do the same,' he said, fidgeting.

'Damn it, man, what's the problem?' The woman began wailing brokenly, beating at the grass with her fists. Powlett caught Gurney's arm and propelled him away.

"Noo it would happen, sooner or later.'

'What?' roared Powlett.

'Tubou-alohi — that's the son o' the high chief — he's kinda restless. Doesn't want t' take his old man's rule fer much longer, so he's done somethin' about it.' Catching Powlett's expression he hurried on, 'He's got his friends from another island t' help him - he's gotta prevail quickly, or he loses. Sends out raidin' parties, seems we have one arrived on the other side.'

Powlett glowered at him. 'Hands to quarters!' he ordered crisply.

The stands of muskets emptied and the seamen and marines hastily took up position at the stockade. Powlett pursed his lips. 'Mr Parry, be so good as to lead a reconnaissance party to the other side of the island and report the situation.'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Parry, and immediately detailed ten men for his party, including Kydd.

'Mr Fairfax, please to muster the ship's company, have them at readiness within the stockade.' He swung round and bellowed to the two scientists and their assistants still at the observation platform, 'Pray stand ready to re-embark on my order.'

Hobbes barely turned his head. 'Indeed we shall not.' His voice sounded thinly over the distance. 'It is not convenient at this time, Captain.'

Powlett ground his teeth. 'Get moving, Mr Party!'

* * *

The party doubled over the beach, not a soul abroad, with Party in a fierce grimace and his sword out in the lead. Kydd smiled secretly as they rushed past the blowhole, the other men flinching at the sudden gouts. They reached the distinctive red-soil bluff that Kydd remembered seeing from the peak, rustling through an overgrown path to its low summit. Parry dropped to the ground, his hand at the halt. 'Silence!' he hissed. They crept cautiously to the edge of the bluff.

Below, the narrow beach was crowded with war-canoes and men. The warriors were engaged in some form of ecstatic dance. They circled around a fire-pit, viciously waving bone clubs and spears. At the head of the beach their prisoners, seven of them, were tied to the palms in a standing position.

Kydd looked sideways. Parry was counting carefully, assessing the war-like potential of the horde. Kydd admired his coolness, but knew even without a count that they were far outnumbered. 'What d'ye think they'll do t' the prisoners?' whispered a man on one side.

'They'll probably be some sort o' slaves to th' end o' their miserable lives,' Kydd muttered. It made more sense than to kill them. The prisoners did not move, probably resigned to their turn of fortune.

The counting went on, as did the circling about the fire. A conch shell bayed, a low and baleful sound, varying in clarity as the man rotated slowly around. The capering stopped. From the dancers a warrior emerged with a tall headdress and anklets of shark's teeth. Carrying a broad bone club he pranced towards the prisoners, passing from one to another, menacing each with his jagged club. He stopped before one.

The club rose slowly and fixed on the man in a quivering accusation. A shout went up from the other warriors and the prisoner was instantly surrounded, dragged down the beach and thrown to the ground. He knelt, his head drooping, not a sound escaping. The warriors drew back, and in a single whirl of motion the bone club smashed the man's skull, the dull squelch carrying up to the hidden watchers.

Kydd was chilled to the core. Below him the body toppled slowly. The executioner stepped back, allowing others to move forward. Then, in absolute horror, Kydd saw butchery begin. Limbs were separated and laid on plantain leaves, strips of flesh torn and peeled from the carcass. His mind threatened to fly apart when he saw one warrior casually carrying a whole leg down to the sea to wash it. The flesh was wrapped in leaves and taken to the fire-pit, where it soon left a rich aroma in the air like roasting pork.

'Retire by twos,' Party whispered fiercely. Stunned, Kydd slid back. They returned to the stockade in silence, something about their manner communicating itself to the waiting seamen.

Powlett rounded on Fairfax. 'They know we're here, and they're not worried. That's not good. If they take it into their heads to make a sally, we'll be put to severe hazard.' He looked soberly at Gurney. 'Is it likely they will?'

'They stand t' take a lot o' plunder if they do - an' more'n that. Whoever gets t' kill a white man gets plenty o' face as a warrior. They won't attack at night, the gods don't like it, but tomorrow . . .'

Parry snorted. 'We can blast them to kingdom come with Artemis’s great guns.'

Powlett glanced at him. 'So we have wise shot, Mr Parry, which knows to seek out only the enemy? At that range off-shore we cannot reach the savages without we hurt our own. No — the scientificals have nearly concluded their work, we have no further business here, and therefore there is only one course I will contemplate. We evacuate the island immediately.'

Muttering began among the men, but Powlett smiled grimly. 'Those who wish to linger I have no doubt will be right royally entertained by the savages.' He glanced up at the sun. 'We'll not complete today. Get as much of the stores back aboard before sunset as you can, Mr Fairfax, the scientificals can remain until first light if they wish, the ship's company will take a two-watch guard. I want to be at sea at dawn.'

More shaken than he cared to admit, Kydd took his place at the stockade, but his mind was on Renzi, lost somewhere in the interior. Not having any real means of communication with anyone he would be alone at a time of appalling danger — and tomorrow was his last chance at escape.

Kydd felt tears prick, whether selfishly because he had lost a true sea companion, or for helplessness at Renzi's dire plight, it didn't matter. A thought began to force itself on his consciousness, a growing, pressing thought. He shuffled along the stockade until he found the end where it met the sea in an untidy pile of logs. 'That you, Toby?' he called.

Stirk was there and grunted a reply. Dark was rapidly falling, and if Kydd was going to do anything it would have to be in the blackness of night before moonrise. 'I know where Renzi is,' he said, in a low voice. Stirk's eyes gleamed in the dying light of the day but he didn't reply. 'I'm goin' after him.'

'Yer want help, mate?' Stirk said. Kydd felt a surge of feeling: here was what it meant to be shipmates.

'No, Toby, I need y' here so when we gets back, you c'n let us back in,' Kydd said. He had no plan, simply an urge to get to Renzi. He hesitated. A musket would impede his progress considerably, and a cutlass didn't have the reach compared to spears and clubs. He would go unarmed.

He splashed around the end of the stockade. 'Luck, matey!' Stirk called quietly. Kydd stepped out nervously, imagining unseen eyes on him, with capture and a hideous death to follow. His skin crawled, but he went on towards the trail leading to the clearing where Haynes had held his trade and which connected with the small path leading inland.

Every bush and broad leaf that brushed his face and every root that grabbed at his ankles made his heart thump. The sky was splashed with stars, but die earth was in inky blackness. The foliage fell away — he had reached the far side of the plateau, and would be able to follow along its fringe until he reached the forest path he sought. If anyone could see him from the stockade, which was doubtful in the gloom, they would believe him to be a savage.

Here — was this the place where he and Renzi had begun their final ascent to the peak? For a minute of panic he could not recognise the area, but remembered the casuarina with its feathery leaves overshadowing the track. He plunged forward. The moist cool of the night was laced with odours of decaying vegetation and night blooms.

Things rustled and snapped. Panting loudly in the quiet of the woodland he wound his way up to where the escarpment bulked large and black against the stars. He paused, trying to remember the topography. Up here — they had seen the other side of the island from this place. Cautiously Kydd drew near.

There - the other side of the island was already under the full radiance of a splendid moon, but what chilled Kydd was the distant sight of not one but four fires below. He could see some figures moving, others still, and his heightened imagination told him that frightened souls were still tied to the trees. There would be fresh meat in the morning.

He pulled away. Where would Renzi have gone from here? Only one way: along the base of the escarpment to the opposite end. Kydd struck out and after only a few hundred yards came to its end. He stepped warily, then stopped dead. Two figures appeared out of the dark, stark against the moonlight.

'Nicholas? Is that you?' he hissed. The figures stood rigid, before one broke away and approached Kydd.

'It is,' said Renzi. There was a bare tremor in his voice.

'Artemis sails t'morrow, we can lose no time.'

A plaintive voice came from the other figure, the import of the unknown words impossible to miss. Renzi murmured something over his shoulder, but then he addressed Kydd directly: 'If by this you mean to persuade me to give up my decision and return to your world of hurts and unreason, then you should stand disabused. I will remain.'

'This afternoon with m' own eyes I saw the savages kill 'n' eat their own kind - Nicholas, to devour a living human, an' they're here still!'

There was a hesitation, then Renzi spoke: 'No doubt there will be those even of this world who will respond to Nature by profaning in the worst possible way, but that does not alter the premise by one whit that, left to himself, Man will gracefully revert to his true self, and attain the perfectibility of the spirit.'

'And if y'r premise is wrong? You will tell y'r warriors they should mend their ways, that—'

'Enough!' Renzi's voice was defensive. 'Logic itself will tell you that both possible sides of the human condition cannot exist at the same time, the same body. One must prevail.'

'A pox on y'r logic!'

'And on rank unreason!'

Both were breathing raggedly. 'Then y' will not come?' 'I — will not come!'

Kydd's anger swelled to blind rage. His muscles tensed in fury. His fist slammed out, connecting with Renzi's jaw, and he crumpled soundlessly. Whimpering, the woman scrabbled at his body, but Kydd pushed her away; she fell back to the bluff rocks, staring at him.

There was almost no time left; the savages would be waiting for moonlight on the lee side of the island before they started picking their way across the island to be in position for dawn. It might be too late now. Kydd thrust away the thoughts. Seizing Renzi's arm, he hoisted him on to his back, grateful for his slight build. He hefted him into the most comfortable position and turned round for the long trip back. The woman cried out once, but didn't try to stop him. He trudged along the track, aware that she was following blindly. Finding the path downward he hurried along it. Renzi's body was a dead weight that had him panting and straining. He wondered what to do about the woman. If she got hysterical she would certainly attract attention, and of the worst possible kind. He would have to silence her — but how?

The moon burst above the line of the escarpment. The whole island now lay still, bathed in silver. Kydd cursed and redoubled his effort. The clearing, then the beach. His muscles blazed intolerably with the strain, he would have to rest. He swung Renzi down, the body flopping untidily on the sand. He looked up and the woman froze. Panting in burning gasps he confronted her. With stabbing gestures he signed that he was taking Renzi to the ship. She nodded in mute understanding. He then signed that she could go also. She gazed at him, her face frozen - and shook her head slowly. Kydd repeated the gesture angrily. Seconds now could decide whether they lived or died. She shook her head more emphatically, then dropped to her knees beside Renzi, anguished cries racking her frame as she stroked his face tenderly.

For a mad moment Kydd considered leaving Renzi to her, but recovered, and tore him from her grasp, triggering a hopeless paroxysm of sobbing. He pulled at Renzi's arm to hoist him up, but his strength was spent. Nearly weeping with frustration and weariness, he tried again. He fell to his knees panting uncontrollably. There was a scurry of movement. He looked up and saw the woman back away in fear, and then run. He swung round, but it was too late. Dark shapes lunged across the beach towards him. He stumbled to his feet.

'Get 'is feet, then, y' ugly bastard,' Stirk growled to another, elbowing Kydd aside. They staggered and lurched along the limpid stillness of the beach and finally, gloriously, reached the stockade.

Splashing round its end, Kydd felt overwhelming relief. Exhausted, he staggered after Stirk and the others who laid Renzi down on the scrubby grass. The moonlight had transformed the landscape, now dappled and lovely; it also revealed officers striding down to investigate.

Renzi twitched and groaned. The remains of his headdress still decorated his head, but the native skirt was sadly bedraggled. No one bent to see to him to avoid being associated by any implication in his criminality.

'There he is,' said Fairfax severely. 'The deserter Renzi! Well done, you men.' Powlett frowned but said nothing.

Stirk turned his back deliberately on Fairfax and touched his forehead to Powlett. 'Renzi were taken b' the savages earlier, sir, as yez can see. Seems 'e made 'is escape while they was a-rollickin' an' eatin' of each other.' Stirk shifted on his feet and thumbed at Kydd. 'Kydd went out ter bring 'im in, but he bein' so near knackered . . .'

Powlett looked down on the groaning Renzi. 'Poor devil,' he said. 'Who can guess what it is he's suffered?' He stared accusingly at Fairfax. 'But God be praised, he's with his shipmates now, his suffering is over.'

Renzi rolled to one side, uttering something incomprehensible. 'Th' experience has affected him, sir,' Kydd hastened to say, 'makes him say crazy things - lost his mind a bit, I'd guess.'

'Get him to the ship as soon as you can, Mr Fairfax, and tie him in his hammock. Poor wretch is not responsible for his actions.' Powlett straightened. 'And see that these fine men get a double tot of rum.'

At dawn the woodland edge opposite the stockade was alive with movement. But at last it was possible to run boats to the ship - coral reefs made it far too dangerous at night. 'Too damned smart to come round our rear by canoe,' Parry said grimly. 'They know we'll blast 'em to flinders from the ship if they do.'

The living quarters and other temporary works were to remain; only sea stores would be retrieved. Hobbes beat a dignified retreat to the ship, but Evelyn insisted on completing his observations, the sailors marvelling at his coolness at the eyepiece as yells and warlike sounds came faint but ever louder over the open ground.

'We will retire by threes, Mr Fairfax,' Powlett ordered. 'The first party led by you to the ship, the second led by Mr Party to lie off in the boats to cover the third, which I will lead, and which will be the last to leave.'

'Aye aye, sir,' Fairfax and Parry acknowledged.

'And you,' said Powlett to Kydd, 'have my authority to remove Mr Evelyn and his gear by force if necessary. He is to retire as of this moment.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Kydd hastened to the observation platform. He mounted the platform to speak to Evelyn, and could see over the stockade to the gathering warriors. They were eddying out from the woodland edge, prancing ferociously and moving forward to strike their clubs on the ground with a battle-cry before retreating.

'Sir - I have t' tell you . . .'

'They are indignant that their plunder is sailing away from them,' Evelyn said, not even raising his eyes from his work. 'No matter, I am nearly done. You may remove all but this.'

Kydd called across a party of men to carry the instruments to the boats; Fairfax had his men embarked and pulled back to Artemis in good order. The savages became more bold, covering half the distance to the stockade now to perform their displays. Muskets banged away despite Powlett's orders to conserve fire for a rush, and more and more bodies lay still in the grass.

The boats returned. 'Sir, the Captain . . .' Kydd tried to say.

'Yes, yes — my last reading, he will not grudge me that?'

Evelyn replied testily. The sound of the war-cries filled with bloody-minded hatred tore at Kydd's courage.

'Sir, my authority. . .'he said earnestly, but was interrupted by a disturbance. A group of warriors had run along the length of the stockade outside and, shielded by its timbers, had gathered sufficient numbers for an assault. They massed around one or two of the posts and heaved and pulled until they had loosened and fallen away. They had breached the stockade.

'Fall back to the boats!' roared Powlett, as the savages poured through. There would be no second chance, and the defenders made haste towards the shore.

Kydd swung to the ground, and looked back to Evelyn, to see him take a spear in his side. The astronomer slumped back in his canvas chair. 'Damn,' he said faintly, plucking at the vicious barbed weapon. Kydd grabbed a musket and fired at the thrower. The musket missed fire with a fizz of priming. The warrior grinned and swung a bone club. Kydd swung the musket up with two hands; the club splintered against it. The musket bent uselessly, but with it Kydd crushed the warrior's skull.

In their lust to stop the ship from escaping, the savages streamed past each side of the platform, leaving the two men untouched. Kydd bent to Evelyn who was now white with shock. 'Th' - the obs-erva-tions,' he whispered in shallow gasps, clutching the chair in great pain. Kydd looked down and saw the polished box, open, papers neatly inside. He grabbed it and slammed the lid, and looked up to meet Evelyn's wild stare. 'Leave!' Kydd hesitated in an agony of indecision. 'Leave! Go! That is worth more than any man's life. Go, damn you!' Kydd nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and fled, the box under his arm.

The last men were throwing themselves into the boats, and Kydd tossed the box into the pinnace. He looked back, but Evelyn had disappeared under a swarm of enraged savages, like ants over prey. Their barbarous weapons rose and fell, hacking and chopping. At last the bow swivel gun mounted in the cutter had a clear field of fire. It blasted out, and a storm of canister swept the scene, changing the full-throated war-cries to screams.

One by one the boats from Artemis retired in good order, and headed back to their rightful place.

Chapter 13

Kydd's nose wrinkled. The hog's lard was giving out, and on the foreshroud deadeyes he was having to work with a nauseating mixture of fat and rancid butter. It was essential activity, for any slackness in the rigging would result in the destruction of a spar as it worked to and fro. Each separate shroud ended in a deadeye, with lanniards running down to the channel outboard to give tension adjustment, but Kydd and his party found that such was the stretched state of the rope that now, in addition, they had to take up the racking on the shrouds themselves. Finally, with gear well taut, Kydd was satisfied and allowed his three men to secure from work.

Left alone, he gave a final tug at the lines, and became aware that he was no longer on his own. He looked up and saw Renzi standing with a set face, looking out over the tumble of blue-grey seas.

Kydd hesitated. His sociable advances before had been repelled with a cold intensity and he was not sure how he would be received now. He fiddled with the loose end of a downhaul and waited. His decisive action on the island

had not been forgiven by Renzi, who had retreated into himself, but ironically, in the week or so since, this had been generously misinterpreted by his shipmates who were convinced that he was recovering from a mind-scarring experience. They gave him every possible sympathy.

Kydd watched Renzi covertly, the face in profile appearing even more solitary and inaccessible. A larger sea surged from astern, faster than they could sail. It overtook them with a swelling and falling accompanied by a marked lurch that sent them both staggering and reaching for a steadying rope. This simple human impulse seemed to bring a fluidity to the situation: Kydd caught a flicker in Renzi's eye. He wandered over beside him.

'Hearty sailin' weather,' Kydd said. He tested the tautness of the nearest rope. Renzi did not move away. He still faced outwards, his expression set — but his lips moved slightly as though speaking to himself. Encouraged, Kydd looked at him directly. 'Mullion says as how we'll be stayin' on this same tack f'r all of three thousan' miles.'

'That would be a logical assumption,' Renzi replied coolly, his gaze still on the heaving seascape.

'Our gear had better be sound, I believe,' Kydd added, anxious to keep momentum in the conversation.

Renzi looked sideways. 'If it is not then no one will ever know — but us,' he said, and Kydd could swear a smile hovered.

'A hard end t' our island adventure,' he dared.

There was just a moment's hesitancy, then, 'I have been considering the whole experience.' Kydd waited. 'It would appear that my expectations were over-sanguine in the matter of Man and Nature. The essence of Rousseau's thesis remains unaltered; timeless in its perception, sublime in its penetration - but it is subverted. We are too late.'

Clearing his throat Kydd began, 'But why . . .'

'It is now very clear. If even in so distant an island as this "civilisation" has come, then it must have spread its canker over the entire inhabited globe. Is there anywhere left at all on this terraqueous sphere that a true self may go to attain perfectibility? I think not/ A pensive expression replaced his forbidding look. 'Perhaps Rousseau would have achieved a higher immortality were he to have demonstrated a modus of perfectibility within the mundus vulgaris. In short, my friend, I accept that there is no longer any possibility for me to achieve a state of natural grace, and thus I bow to the ineluctability of my fate.'

The smile surfaced, and Kydd responded, barely able to restrain himself from clapping Renzi on the back. 'Never fear, we have a long haul ahead before we reach our own civilisation, an' that at war,' he said.

Renzi's face cleared. The blue Pacific rollers were now behind them, the grey of the Southern Ocean was the predominant theme, and he gazed intensely at the clouds obscuring the wan sun.

'Fierce and more fierce the gathering tempest grew, South, and by West, the threatening demon blew; Auster's resistless force all air invades, And every rolling wave more ample spreads.'

'Y'r Wordsworth, then?' Kydd guessed. He would have been just as happy at the fine words if it had been the village blacksmith.

'I believe it might have been the peerless Falconer, talking about the mighty ocean in his Shipwreck, but I may be mistaken.'

Kydd smiled broadly - all was right with the world.

'Yair, second time fer me, mates,' said Crow, his face animated at the memory, 'an' that's twice too many fer me.' He pushed his pot forward. 'Worst place in th' whole god-blasted world fer a sailor, an' that's no error.' The faces of his audience grew serious.

'We gets westerlies all th' way, should be quick,' Mullion said.

'Aye, but we're only at forty south now an' it's comin' on ter blow — we need ter get to fifty-six south fer Cape Horn, an' there it's a reg'lar built hell.' Nobody spoke. 'Black squalls hit yer out o' nowhere, grievous cold, seas the size o' which make yer blood freeze ter see 'em — no galley fire on account o' the lunatic movin' o' the barky, it's no place ter be. But there's some days it's as charmin' as ever you'd want, mates, seas calm an' sun out a-shinin' on them great black rocks — but yer knows that next it's goin' ter turn on yer, like an animal, screamin' 'n' shriekin' an' out ter tear the hooker t' bits . . .'

Artemis swooped and lifted, her hull creaking and working energetically. It was easy to imagine the result of a harsher climate, and Kydd looked about at the swaying lanthorn and slight movement of the canvas screen, and felt a quickening of his senses.

He was still affected by Renzi's labyrinthine musing on the nature of man. 'D'ye know if there's any savages livin' ashore there, Isaac?' he asked, interested to see if Renzi's thesis would work at the opposite pole to paradise.

'Aye,' said Crow, 'that there are. Saw 'em once, an' they must be the lowest kind o' hooman yer can get. Scraggy, hair all a-hoo, mud all over, 'n' sulky with it. Don't trust 'em, any of 'em.' He thought for a moment and added, 'An' their women are as rough as they is - catch fish naked with a dog, they does.'

Despite Crow's direful forecast, Kydd couldn't help but feel thrilled by the heightened sensations of speed and danger as they drove south. Entering the domain of the Southern Ocean proper everything was on the grand scale. Seas swelled to mountains, a quarter of a mile between peaks and higher even than the maintop in the troughs. As the following seas came on, Artemis would lift at the stern, going higher and steeper, until her angle down seemed a giddy impossibility, and surfing down the face of the wave in an accelerating rush before the massive swell overtook and passed down her length with a consequent sudden deceleration. Her decks filled with a foaming, hissing cataract. Then the process would begin again, a regular three times a minute.

It was dangerous on deck and lifelines were rigged the length of the vessel. If the unwary could not leap to the rigging in time, only a desperate clamping on to this stout line would give a chance while the rampaging seas invaded the deck. Every man aboard knew that with the boats griped and lashed so securely, there would be no lowering of them to rescue a man overboard - even supposing the hurtling progress of the vessel could be stopped. It would be a cold, lonely and certain death.

On the helm it was doubly dangerous. One of the massive seas coming in astern and catching the rudder at an angle unawares could slam it aside; this would transmit backwards up through the tiller ropes and to the helm, resulting in the weather helmsman being hurled through the air over the wheel while the lee man was smashed to the deck. It called for ferocious concentration on the subtle motions of the sea, and Kydd learnt much as he and others fought Artemis along.

If the crest of one of the gigantic waves broke it was a terrifying experience. Struggling at the wheel, the first that the helmsman looking forward would know of its approach would be a sullen rumble, rising to a rushing roar. If he made the mistake of looking over his shoulder, he would see a gigantic mass of foam-streaked sea about to fall on the vessel like an unstoppable avalanche. The spectacle was of such primeval power that it was said to be not uncommon for a helmsman to flee the wheel.

Days turning to weeks, they sailed on; the same course, the same wind from astern, each day the same wearing down of the spirit in a ceaseless fight against the danger, the motion, the discomfort. Forty degrees south turned to forty-five, then fifty and finally fifty-five south as they shaped course for Cape Horn itself.

At these latitudes discomfort turned to pain, exhilaration to dread. Skies ragged with racing scud, squalls hammering in from nowhere shrieking like a banshee in the fraying rigging, sails ripped to shreds in an instant, it was a hellish world.

At noon each day a group of officers assembled, staggering and lurching on the quarterdeck. Like the seamen they dressed in any ragged garment that could offer some proof against the weather. And almost always they dispersed afterwards without the one thing they yearned for — a sight of the sun. Without a sighting, their latitude was so much guesswork, and if this was mistaken, then Artemis would leave her bones on the iron-bound coast of Patagonia.

Squalls now brought a new misery. Taking in yet another reef in the foretopsail, Kydd closed his eyes to reduce the soreness of salt-reddened eyeballs as he worked at the stiff, sodden canvas. He sensed the cold feathery touch of snow. When he opened his eyes he found himself isolated in a world of white flakes, tossing and whirling around him, wedy settling on spars and cordage before being whipped away. It turned to a penetrating sleet, and in the raw, wet cold Kydd climbed back on deck in the most acute bodily misery. Even so, he could not escape. The spray bursting aboard was now half frozen; as it savagely sleeted across the deck it drew blood where frozen particles sand-blasted his skin.

Always it was a deep relief to go below and stagger along to his mess, moving from hand to hand in the wild motion, to the blessed benison of rum, age-toughened cheese and hard-tack - and temporary surcease. Men sat, silent and staring, dealing with the conditions in their own way, but never complaining. That would have been the most futile thing they could do.

Sometimes the weather played tricks. The cloudbase would drop to masthead height, the jagged cloud streaming past, and heavy curtains of snow would advance rapidly to bring visibility down to feet. Then, within minutes it would pass and cloudless skies would emerge as innocent of malice as a newborn, but always accompanied by a freezing cold.

It was on one of these occasions, when the biting sleet had moved away and the crystal dome of the sky had cleared ahead, that there appeared across an infinite distance of tossing waters the distant sight of snow-capped mountains - the far southern tip of the continent of South America. The disbelieving yell of the lookout in the foretop hailed, 'Laand hoooo!’

Men tumbled up from below, crowding the decks. Powlett appeared and stomped up to the Master, who stood with a look of wonderment on his seamed face. 'God bless m' soul! My reckonin' is that those peaks are not less'n eighty, one hundred miles off, so they are.' Murmurs of amazement greeted this - the horizon for a frigate was never more than twelve to fifteen miles away, and the royals of a ship-of-the-line could be seen at twenty — but this!

'Well done, Mr Prewse! Voyage of half ten thousand miles and we're right on the nose.' Powlett's satisfaction spread out like a ripple, and smiles were to be seen for the first time for weeks.

'Aye, sir, but the hard part is a-coming, never fear,' Prewse said stolidly.

Brutally tired, the ship's company of Artemis faced the final approach to Cape Horn. The stark rock-bound land stretched across their course and was downwind to the fiercest blasts to be experienced anywhere on earth. If they found themselves in the wrong position there was little chance they could claw off back out to sea again.

At eight bells the watch changed. The short day had turned to a fearful darkness out of which came the hammering blasts with just the same ferocity as in daytime. The same dangers lurked, the same treachery, but these came invisibly and suddenly at night.

Kydd nodded to his replacement, who loomed up from the dismal gloom. His trick at the wheel always left him aching, bruised and punch-drunk with the merciless buffeting of the wind, and he felt for his lashings with relief. It was a critical time, the handover. The sea was always looking to take advantage of sleep-weary men not fully aroused to their task.

Hallison took the weather helm himself and was in the process of surrendering the wheel, while Kydd remained for a few more minutes until the new man was sure of himself. Others manning the after wheel were similarly engaged.

Some instinct pricked at Kydd at that precise moment and he snatched a glance back over his shoulder. The size of seas coming in astern could be sensed by the amount of dark shadow they blocked against the stormy but slightly less gloomy sky; rearing up was a truly huge, immense black hill of sea, which was just beginning to break. An awful, soul-chilling threat.

Kydd bawled a warning, but it happened too fast for the weary seamen. The ship lifted sharply to the watery mountain, higher than it ever had before, and as the comber broke it did so directly under her stern, sending her skidding forwards at a disastrous angle. At the same time the merciless wind pressed on her topsails and heeled her over even further. The two forces combined could have only one ending, broaching to, the ship forced around broadside to the waves, inertia rolling her over like a child's toy - to destruction.

In an impulse of pure seamanship Kydd strained to put on opposite turns at the wheel even before the slewing started, but as the vessel lay over first Hallison, then others who had released their lashing slid and then fell to the side of the deck before disappearing under the torrent of white sea that came over the bulwarks. Audible even above the furious hissing roar of wind and sea was a heavy clatter and ominous rumble from deep within Artemis. Her yards now nearly touched the sea with the heel. Kydd and the two who remained with him fought the helm for their very lives.

It was Kydd's instinctive early action that saved Artemis. It was sufficient to tip the balance of forces in favour of sails and helm, the greater angle of rudder working with the remaining thrust from rags of sails to give sufficient way through the water to counter the broadside slewing. Agonising minutes later the ship slowly came back erect and before the wind again.

Trembling with fatigue and emotion Kydd was finally relieved, going below to a desolation of broken gear all adrift, the surge of water swilling over the deck, and men stumbling about, utterly exhausted after their battle for the life of their ship.

A day later, a little after mid-morning, the weather moderated to racing low cloud against clearing curtains of heavy rain, but the ship had been heavily battered by squalls of extreme intensity. Powlett and the Master had never left the deck, for as Prewse quietly pointed out, these squalls were born high up on the ice-clad slopes of a mountain range somewhere close by, air super-cooled and made so heavy it hurtled down the valleys and to the sea. This was proof positive that the bleak dread of Cape Horn was close at hand.

At a brief clearing of the atrocious conditions, there it was, a bare five miles away. The very tip of the continent. A low, black, straggling coast, streaked with snow, barren to the prevailing winds but darkly wooded elsewhere - a picture of desolation.

'Two points to larboard,' snapped Powlett, hardly recognisable in his thick grego and woollen head covering. 'We keep in with the land while we can. How far to the Horn itself, Mr Prewse?'

'At a whisker less sixty-seven degrees west at last reckoning, we'll see it today, sir, no doubt about it — s'long as the weather lets us.' With their sighting of the distant icy mountains Prewse had been able to adjust his course so that they approached by running down the line of latitude of his objective. Now they would keep with the land until they had won through to the other side.

'Coast is bold hereabouts, I believe,' Powlett added, shielding his eyes from flurries of spray.

Prewse nodded. 'Aye, sir, very steep to, I'll agree. A good thing, o' course, and if there are hazards, y' can be sure that the rock'll be covered in kelp, easy t' see ahead f'r a warning - if y'r lookout is awake.'

At the mizzen cleats Crow heard the comment and muttered to Kydd, 'Yair, but does 'e think that 'cos every bit o' kelp means a rock, that no kelp means no rock?' He cracked a grim smile before cinching the rope and going below.

To Kydd it was awesome and fascinating, bucketing along before the moderating swell and seeing the stark black coast slip past, the first land for so long at sea, yet knowing that if they went ashore they would find it the most bleak and windswept corner on earth.

More rain. It came in dark-grey curtains of misery, washing over the battered frigate and sending Kydd into paroxysms of shuddering at the cruel wind that always followed. It cleared - and there was Cape Horn. Kydd stared across the grey rollers at the dark mass. One by one sailors came on deck to look, expressions ranging from loathing to fascination. Here was the reality of why they had suffered.

From the low, nondescript coastline it swept towards them from the north into a magnificent bluff well over a thousand feet high, then plunged vertically into the sea as the breathtaking final point of a great continent. Kydd watched until the grand sight disappeared into the rain squalls and sea fret, and without further ado they passed from the Pacific into the Adantic, homeward bound.

The bows of Artemis were now irrevocably directed towards England - that wondrous place whose name could send sea-hardened men into misty-eyed reverie. Kydd surveyed the little gathering at the mess table. Sunken dark eyes and bowed backs, introspective silences — none of them was unaffected by the experience. They had passed into the company of those few who could say they had doubled Cape Horn.

But there was a renewal of spirit: nothing but a couple of months of steadily improving weather stood between them and England. The few days they had spent in the tiny anchorage in the lee of Tierra del Fuego had broken the spell and given them back their strength. The kelp-strewn rocks, playground of seals, echoing to the cries of wheeling terns and gulls, this was a blessed haven while they readied their vessel for her final leg.

A warm feeling had come over Kydd unexpectedly when he looked up at Artemis from the boat that carried them around her battered hull, seeking out hidden damage. Her colours were dulled, her tar-black timbers streaked and worn, her cordage frayed and white with salt — but this was the ship that had carried him safely within her, across the world, to sights and adventures that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Crow lifted his eyes; they now glimmered with life. 'We get the trades well 'nough, we'll be a-rollickin' ashore in England before th' buds o' May.' His arm was still bound to his body, but at least he was not tied to a cot like Hallison and two others, who had been left helpless with broken bones after their mauling by the giant wave.

The contribution from Haynes was a grunt, but Kydd could see from his unwinking hard eyes that it would not be long before he would return as abrasive as ever.

Mullion was cast down. He had been greatly affected by the loss of his friend overside, his grip on the man's wrist not strong enough to prevent his being carried bodily overboard by the seething torrent. His last sight of his shipmate was of him flailing in the sea close by but being carried inexorably away. Mullion had stood helpless, weeping in agony as the minutes of life left to his friend had passed away out in the anonymous blackness.

Kydd caught Renzi's eye. As far as anyone could tell, apart from a deepening of the lines next to his mouth he was untouched by events, cool and considered in his words, as lofty-minded as ever. Kydd smiled. He himself had other concerns. 'Could do with somethin' t' eat other than hard-tack, somethin' that sticks to y' ribs.'

There was a dry chuckle, surprisingly from Haynes. 'Yer'll get yer meat soon enough,' he said.

The others looked up in curiosity. 'How so?' said Crow.

'Why,' said Haynes, 'th' hard-tack will be manned b' bargemen.'

Kydd grinned. 'Let's tell ye how we used to clear the bread o' bargemen in Royal Billy'

He had their attention. Every sailor was interested in ridding the hard-tack of bargemen, the weevils and other life, particularly the large pale maggots that infested old ship's stores.

'Well, when we starts a bread cask in th' hold, we sets on it a plate - with a ripe fish aboard. Bargemen, they wait till it's quiet, then they swarm out t' get a taste o' the fish. All ye do then, is t' heave the fish over the side 'n' set another in its place until you've cleared the cask o' the vermin.'

The cheery response and the spreading comfort of the rum was gratifying. Kydd's spirits rose.

Artemis sailed steadily north. The sun's warmth swelled, grey seas became tinged with blue, and as the frigate ranged out into the Adantic rollers it was almost possible to put from mind past dangers and harsh times. But the ship and her company were sadly worn by the long voyage, tired by the interminable movement, jaded and soul-weary.

It was seen in so many ways. Powlett appeared on deck in the morning, but then retired to his cabin soon after, his interchanges curt and monosyllabic. On one night Kydd had gone to Merrydew, the boatswain, in his cabin to ask for some gear and had found him quite incapable with drink. The surgeon, who had no particular friends that anyone could name, was acting oddly, shutting himself away in the noisome gloom of his quarters, his meals sent to him. And the bickering between Parry and Rowley took a bitter edge, a sarcastic and barely concealed animosity.

The pleasant north-east trade winds petered out into fitful flurries all too soon after they reached the tropics; the sun was now hot and aggressive, humidity making movement a trial. Merrydew rarely appeared. He seldom spoke, his red, sweating face suffused with suffering. Kydd remembered the sun-blasted sea from the last time they had passed this way and prayed that their passage would not be protracted.

'Aye, both on 'em!' The little purser's steward anxiously awaited Kydd's response. Kydd was quartermaster's mate and was therefore among those responsible for stowage in the hold. It was shattering news: two or three of the remaining ground tier of water casks had run afoul of each other, probably as a result of their upset at the time of the monster wave, and had chosen this time to split a stave each at the point of contact. Precious water had quietly seeped into the bilge and at a stroke Artemis’s sea endurance was curtailed. There was no longer any question of her reaching England.

'Have y' told the mate o' the hold?' Kydd asked, but as he spoke he remembered that the old man was still lying helpless with broken ribs. Leaving the fetor of the hold he hurried up the hatchway — the Master himself would have to be informed.

Mr Prewse was at the lee hances, in troubled conversation with Powlett. Raised voices could be heard, and Powlett's jutting chin and flinty manner augured ill for the news that Kydd was bringing.

'If y' please, Mr Prewse,' he said, holding his hat respectfully in his hands. The Master turned his calm gaze to Kydd. Unsure of whether the Captain should know from him, he paused, but Powlett's clear impatience decided him, and he made his report.

'God blast it! God damn it!' Powlett's rage shook Kydd, its intensity out of character. Powlett regained control. 'The nearest watering?' he shot at Prewse, who thought carefully, rubbing his chin.

'Well, I—'

'We cannot go to east'd, the Spanish are probably now at war with us, we can only fall back on Brazil - true?' 'Aye, sir,' said Prewse neutrally.

'Then set our course in accordance,' snapped Powlett. 'Closest point agreeable to the wind's track.'

* * *

The closest point, thanks to the favourable south-easterly, was but two days away. It turned out to be a scrubby plain, sandy and characterless, through which a brown-stained river wound listlessly. The air was still and enervating, and with a hand-lead swinging in the chains it took hours for the frigate to work in. The watering party pulled ashore and began work; the country was unattractive and had a persistent reek as of a long-dead creature lying heavily on the air. Insects made their way out even as far as the ship, the sudden maddening sting a disagreeable surprise after so long at sea.

As soon as the boat had been hoisted in, Artemis shaped course seawards, but within a day there was good news. 'Glory be!' said Crow. 'A sou'-easter!' It was true, they would have the unseasonally early good fortune of a wind in just the right quarter to see them past Cabo de Sao Roque, and on past the doldrums to the northern trade winds. Every weary heart aboard lifted at the news. This would carry them into the north half of the world, and they would then set course directly for home.

'Cape Sao Roque,' breathed Kydd. It was the last land they would see before England. An undistinguished blue-grey tongue, far to larboard: their long-awaited farewell to far-off lands and unknown perils. Soon they would be in familiar waters. 'Do y' not feel it in y'r bones we are homeward bound?' he added, looking at Renzi.

Renzi looked thoughtful. 'I am in two minds on the matter,' he said. 'On the one hand we have had the felicity of adding to the breadth of our intellects by our voyaging to the far side of the world — but I have to confess, on the other there is nothing in compass that appeals to my spirit more at this moment than the prospect of surcease, a cessation of striving, the quiet land at last. "In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid.'"

Kydd saw his friend's face take on an enigmatic cast, and suppressed his response. His eye noted the worn ropes and frayed canvas, then wandered over the vista of glittering blue sea ahead. Seven bells sounded distantly from the fo'c'sle, and they swung out on the futtock shrouds and descended to the deck.

'Only a few weeks, then, Isaac,' Kydd offered to the silent table.

'An' not a minute too soon,' Haynes grated. 'I got such a pain in me back 'n' legs after Cape Horn '11 take months ter shake orf.'

'An' you, Jeb?' Kydd asked Mullion. The loss of his shipmate was taking its toll: Mullion seemed to have lost all appetite. He looked up. His eyes were dull and there was an uncommon lethargy in his movements. 'Ter tell th' truth, I've had this headache comin' on, coupla days now.'

'You should be seein' the doc, get him to bleed ye,' Kydd said.

'What? That useless pinde tagger?' Crow huffed. 'Ain't seen hide nor hair o' the bugger since west o' the Horn.' He glanced at Mullion. 'An' I heard tell it's his loblolly what set them bones,' he added, 'an' him without a surgeon's mate an' all.' The surgeon's mate had missed the ship at Macao, but Kydd remembered the sharp-eyed young lad with the lame leg who had chosen to be a lowly loblolly boy rather than the rate of cook's mate to which he was entitled by his injury.

* * *

A lassitude seemed to be stealing down on the ship, a torpor that was more evident in some than others, bewildering in the general lift of spirits that went with a homeward course.

'Haaaands to make sail!' That would be Rowley wanting to spread the weather fore topsail stuns'l, of somewhat questionable benefit to speed, given that they were going large and the sail would almost certainly be blanketed by canvas on the main. As Kydd jumped to the bulwarks with the others of his watch for the brisk climb aloft, he noticed that one of them, Millais, a reliable Jerseyman, was not with them. Instead he was looking upward from the deck, anxiously clinging to one of the shrouds. Disturbed, Kydd dropped back down beside the man. 'Lay aloft, Millais,' he ordered, conscious that Rowley would be impatient with delay.

Millais stared back at Kydd. 'I - I can't—' he began, swayed, and then, before Kydd's disgusted eyes, vomited helplessly. Sick drunk at this hour? Millais crumpled to his knees and looked up piteously. 'I don' feel s' well, mate,' he croaked. The words were not slurred. Kydd felt a creeping fear and bent to help the man to his feet. Even at that distance he felt a raging heat radiating out from his body.

'Get aloft, you infernal rascals!' came Rowley's irritable bellow from the quarterdeck.

Kydd hurried aft and confronted Rowley. 'Sir, that man's got a fever.' He watched Rowley stiffen. It was the worst possible news. Kydd sensed a scurrying down the main hatch and guessed that the news was being spread even as they spoke.

'Sling his hammock in the gundeck forward and put him in it,' Rowley snapped. It was the only thing possible. Frigates did not have even the rudimentary sick berths of a larger ship. 'And tell the surgeon,' he added.

Kydd touched his hat and rattled down the ladderway. The sooner the surgeon could take strong measures the better for all. The musty gloom was tinged with apprehension: Kydd had never had occasion to visit the surgeon professionally, and like most healthy men, felt uneasy there.

He took off his hat and crossed the wardroom to the louvred door of the surgeon's cabin, knocking firmly. He was about to knock again when the door flew open, nearly hitting him. 'You?' said the surgeon, puzzled. Kydd stepped back in surprise: the surgeon was in his usual rumpled black, but it was stained and there was a rank, unpleasant odour about him.

Kydd collected himself, and reported, 'Sir, respects from Mr Rowley, an' he wishes you t' come - he thinks we have fever aboard.'

The surgeon looked at him and frowned. 'Pray inform milady, Jenkins, that she must persist in the measures or I will not hold myself responsible for the outcome.'

Blinking, Kydd said carefully, 'Sir, my name is not Jenkins. Could y' come now? Mr Rowley is very concerned.'

'No. You will tell Lady Bassett that I have done all I can. All! There is no hope - none. I grieve for you all. Goodnight.' The door slammed. Taken aback, Kydd hesitated.

Across the wardroom Party emerged from his cabin, wiping his face with a towel. 'What is it, Kydd?' he asked.

'Could be fever aboard, sir,' Kydd said respectfully. He felt ill at ease in officers' private territory.

Parry paused. 'You have seen this?'

'Aye, sir.'

Striding past Kydd, Parry hammered at the door. 'Doctor, we have a crisis, sir. Please be so good as to come on deck at once.' There was no reply. 'There is a fever on board, damn your blood!'

The door remained closed, but from within Kydd heard a desolate, 'No hope! None!' and a quiet sobbing.

Parry slapped the towel at his side in frustration. 'We'll get nothing from that useless ninny. I'll be on deck shortly.'

Fever! It was feared more than any number of enemy cannon, and with reason: in a ship there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape to; every man aboard must face risking his life in the unknown miasma that brought the fever.

Supper was a silent meal. Kydd slowly spooned his pease pudding. Across the table eyes followed his movements; he glared back. Haynes coughed — every eye swivelled to watch, then dropped at his savage expression. Mul-lion seemed sunk in misery, pushing away his wooden plate.

'A pox on it!' snarled Haynes. A twisted smile acknowledged his unfortunate turn of phrase, but he went on forcefully, 'Don't sound like any ship-fever I know - an' it ain't scurvy. Could be nuthin' a-tall.'

Renzi raised his head. 'Or it could be deadly . . .' The table glowered at him collectively. He lapsed into silence. Kydd watched him narrowly — there was a half-smile that he could only remember seeing before battle.

Haynes tugged at his neckerchief. 'Port Royal, now that's th' place fer a fever. See them soldiers arrive, chirpin' merry an' all in their lobsterback rig. A week later an' they're sweatin' and writhin' with the yeller jack, only a coupla days afore they tops their boom.' He brooded. 'Must be thousan's left their bones there.'

'Must be a spankin'-size graveyard!' said Kydd, hoping to joke away the pall.

It was Stirk who replied. 'No, mate, very small. See, they buries 'em the same day at the Palisades, spit o' sand away from the town. Come night, all these 'ere land crabs pops out 'n' digs 'em up fer a feast. Rousin' good eatin', should you get yerself a dish o' them crabs.'

Kydd interrupted him. 'What's this, cuffin?' He had noticed how Mullion held his head in his hands, obviously in distress.

'Me head, mate, aches somethin' cruel.' Looks were exchanged around the table.

Haynes stood up. 'Gotta get aloft — that scurvy crew in the foretop not done yet, I'll 'ave their liver.' Crow rose, mumbled something, and they both left.

Stirk turned his gaze to Kydd. 'An' you?' he said.

Kydd stared him down, then stood. 'Bear a fist, then, y' hen-hearted lubbers!' Mullion was difficult to handle as he staggered haphazardly. They tumbled him into his hammock forward on the gundeck where he lay, biting off moans. Kydd saw that there were slung numbers of hammocks now, each bearing its burden of suffering.

The warm, pleasant airs on the open deck were a relief, but there was a sense of dread: the ship had turned into a prison that was confining its inmates to permit an unknown death to overwhelm them.

Kydd turned to Renzi. The half-smile was still there. 'What chance . . .'

'My dear fellow, my education does not include physick. I cannot say.'

They glanced aft. With a pugnacious stride and jutting chin, Powlett was now pacing the quarterdeck as if he had never left it. 'I do wish, however, that the surgeon had retained but a modicum of his intellects,' said Renzi, still watching the Captain. 'It was churlish of him to take leave of them at this time.'

The loblolly boy held a bowl of thin gruel over Mullion, trying to spoon it in, but Mullion twisted away his head. 'Fer Chrissakes!' the lad muttered. This was no time for games, there were too many others to attend to.

'Take it, Jeb, y' needs the strength,' Kydd urged.

Mullion focused his dull eyes on him. 'No, mate, give it ter the others,' he whispered. 'This is me punishment, I knows it. 'Cos I didn't hold on ter him — I let 'im go ter his doom. He'd be aboard now an' alongside us if I'd've held on.' He looked away in despair.

Not knowing what to do, Kydd took the gruel from the loblolly, who pulled aside Mullion's shirt. Kydd recoiled: the torso was suffused by a pink rash and it glistened with sweat. 'That's yer sign,' the loblolly said, and took back the gruel to limp over to the next man.

Suddenly gripped by an urgent desire for the open air, Kydd hurried on deck. He saw Haynes by the boat-space: he was motionless, staring out to sea, his grip on a rope bringing white to his knuckles. Kydd sensed the man's fear. 'Comin' for y'r grog?' he said, in as friendly a manner as he could.

Slowly Haynes turned his stare on him. In horrible fascination Kydd saw a betraying pinkness above the line of his open-necked shirt. 'I got it, ain't I?' Haynes mouthed.

There was no point in denying it. 'Y' may have it, but it's a fever only, nobody died.'

'You a sawbones, then?' Haynes came back, but with little spirit. He resumed his stare out to sea.

At barely six bells it was not yet time for Kydd to go on watch at the helm, but he was not ready to go below, and swung forward. Abreast the fore-hatch was an anxious group in troubled conversation; Kydd saw Petit's lined features and nodded to him. Petit came over and touched Kydd's arm. 'I'd be beholden were yer mate Renzi ter help us,' he said in subdued tones.

'Nicholas says as how he's no physician.'

His forehead creased with worry, Petit appealed, 'Yair, but 'e's book-learned, he is, knows a mort more'n he says. Say that it would be kind in 'im jus' ter step down an' clap peepers on Billy Cundall - he's very bad.'

Kydd touched him on the shoulder. 'I'll tell him, Elias.'

Renzi snorted. 'Rank superstition! If I top it the physician, it would be a mockery. I will not!'

'Nicholas, could ye not go to them? Some words o' yours, little enough t' ask, they'd bring some comfort.'

Renzi frowned with irritation, but Kydd pressed on, 'They trust you, an' even should ye not know the medicine, y' words will give ease.'

With reluctance Renzi allowed himself to be dragged down to the berth deck, to the familiar mess of before. Cundall was lying in his hammock in the centreline of the ship, moaning and writhing. Grimacing at the charade Renzi stood beside him and the others crowded around.

‘I see,' he began hesitantly.

Cundall looked up at him with piteous eyes, a lost soul who barely resembled the loquacious braggart of before. Renzi took a wrist and made to feel the pulse - he had no idea what to do, so nodded sagely and let it drop. 'How long has the rash been present?' he asked gravely.

'A coupla days. Will I die?' Cundall cried.

Renzi was at a loss. He had come prepared to go through a few token motions, to offer the reassurance of his presence, but he was speaking to a man who was ill of an unknown fever, asking him to pronounce sentence: life or death. He thought briefly of physicians he had seen, solemnly descending the staircase after visiting a sickroom, and asked the same question. His conscience tore at him at the prospect of laying either alternative before the victim.

He cleared his throat. 'We see here as clear a case of persona non grata that I have yet seen.'

Petit looked pleased. 'Be damned! Will 'e be better?' There was a perceptible lightening of mood among the onlookers.

Renzi moved quickly to head away from the moral quicksands of an answer. 'Do you steep six ounces of Calamintha Acinos for two hours, and bathe the afflicted region every hour. That is all.'

'We don' have yon calaminthy, Nicholas,' Petit said respectfully.

'Oh, a pity, it is a common herb in England, the basil,' Renzi said, in lordly tones.

'Hey, now!' Quashee pushed himself forward. 'My conweniences! I have basil in my conweniences, Mr Renzi!'

'Splendid! Its carminative properties are always useful you'll find. I must go.' Renzi left speedily.

'Cundall is in good hands, I see,' Kydd said, hurrying to keep up. His open admiration for his friend caused Renzi to wince. 'May I know what is your "carminative"?'

Renzi stopped; turning to Kydd he spoke slowly but intensely. 'My "carminative" means that an essence of basil is said to be excellent for the quelling of flatulence — farting, if you will. Now pray do me the service of never again putting my sensibilities to hazard in this way. Physician indeed!'

It was clear that Mullion was sinking. He barely moved; the ferocious muscular pains coursing in his legs and back caused spasms that stopped his breath for long moments, his face racked with suffering. Kydd patted his shoulder. There was littie he could do — he was now acting quartermaster with Hallison down, and he was due on watch soon.

Kydd left to go aft, but at the main hatch he bumped into Renzi. 'Mullion is draggin' his anchors for the other world,' he said. 'Could ye not—'

'I could not,' Renzi said curtly.

Coughing respectfully Petit appeared, standing with his hat off before him. 'Thanks t' you, Mr Renzi,' he said, 'an' Billy Cundall sends 'is respects, an' the rash is quite gone, now.'

With a groan, Renzi waited for Petit to leave, then glared at Kydd. 'So they all believe me now a master of physick.'

'Aye, Nicholas,' said Kydd meekly.

The number of sick had risen sharply, and there was now a significant effect on the balance of men skilled in specifics in the watches; Fairfax was constantly worrying over his watch and station bill. Kydd's temporary new rate as quartermaster was an important one. He took up position at the conn, with responsibility for the watch glass, the slate of course details and other navigational matters, leaving littie time to dwell on illness.

The watch drew on, the officer-of-the-watch, Party, unforgiving of the slightest sign of sloppiness. Later in the afternoon Rowley emerged on deck to take the air. It was not the custom for officers to promenade the fo'c'sle: the quarterdeck was their proper place. There was no alternative open to Rowley other than to begin a slow circuit of the quarterdeck, unavoidably confronting Party on each lap. Kydd had always felt uncomfortable at the clear dislike the men had for each other, and hoped that Rowley would soon go below.

'I'd be obliged were you to keep to leeward, Mr Rowley,' Parry said stiffly. He was standing to weather, as was his right, but the effect of his order was to rob Rowley of his circle — he could now only pace up and down in a line. Rowley touched his hat with an expansive smile and exaggerated bow before complying. The rest of the watch passed silentiy and with acid tension.

At seven bells Powlett came on deck. Party moved to leeward in respect; Rowley promptly went below. 'Pass the word for Petty Officer Renzi,' Powlett growled. Parry nodded to the boatswain's mate, who trotted forward. When Renzi reported, Powlett spoke abruptly. 'I hear you are something of a physician.'

'Why, not at all, sir—'

'I have no power to warrant you in any position, but you will take on medical duties as of now, for as long as the surgeon's indisposition lasts.'

'Sir, you are mistaken, I—'

'That is all.'

'But, sir, there is—'

'Go!' Powlett's voice was weary, his bearing was faltering, he looked as tired and worn as Artemis now was. Renzi hesitated, touched his hat and left.

Mullion died in the same hour, and Cundall's symptoms reappeared. The forward part of the gundeck was screened off, and a windsail was rigged above the fore-hatch, but the rows of hammocks increased. It was puzzling: some with raging fever saw their symptoms recede almost to nothing, then return with brutal force, while others recovered, albeit profoundly deaf. Another two died. Trapped in the cheerless gloom of the gundeck in the midst of so much pain and squalor, Renzi's world turned to a waking nightmare.

A boatswain's mate pulled aside the screen. His nose wrinkled in disgust - there was no way that he would enter the moaning, vomit-strewn hell. He called across loudly, 'Mr Fairfax passes the word for Petty Officer Renzi!' Straightening wearily, Renzi threw down the rag he was carrying, and with bloodshot eyes pulled the screen aside. He was touched to see Kydd look up from a bench close to the screen — he must have lingered there in support, unable to do more. Kydd rose and as Renzi went aft he tried to chat companionably with him.

Fairfax was in his cabin with Rowley. 'Come in, Renzi,' he said, gravely. The two officers looked seriously at Renzi as he entered, and he knew intuitively what they were going to say.

'I am sorry to have to tell you that the Captain has been taken ill of the fever.' Rowley's eyes flashed nervously white. 'We have endeavoured to communicate with the surgeon but unhappily he is beyond reach.' Fairfax sighed heavily.

Rowley leant forward impatiently. 'Therefore we require you to treat the Captain using whatever you can find in the surgeon's cabin.'

Appalled, Renzi gaped at them.

'Be so good as to begin immediately,' Fairfax said, his worried frown deepening. 'If you have need of anything -anything at all — you will get it.'

'But the men are—'

The loblolly is in attendance,' Rowley said with irritation. 'Go to your duties now, if you please.'

'Get out!' the surgeon shrilled. 'You have no right - I will inform your mistress presently!' Kydd held him back while Renzi attempted to rummage about the sad ruins of the man's domesticity. 'I know what you are, you are the devil's messenger, are you not?' Kydd felt destabilised by the surgeon's high, off-key voice, at the edge of reason, and even more so when the man began to scream and clutch at him in terror. A knot of men waited outside, including a marine sentry who had let his musket fall and stood in wide-eyed horror.

They escaped with the surgeon's bulky chest — a hurried search had not turned up any book worthy of the name — and rapidly made their way to the Captain's bedplace cabin. He was lying quietly in his suspended cot, his eyes closed. Renzi set down the chest carefully, conscious of the tense presence of the officers and the Captain's coxswain.

'Pray leave us. He is, er, not to be excited,' Renzi pronounced. At least they would not blunder about in front of an audience. He looked apprehensively at Kydd: in all his rich and varied life he had never been in such a bizarre and helpless situation.

At his words, Powlett opened his eyes. 'Renzi!' he said thickly. 'Do your duty, man!'

Renzi blinked. Do something, his very being shouted. But if he did the wrong thing? 'Does it pain you, sir?' he opened.

'Yes!' Powlett said briefly. 'And this goddamned headache is oppressive to my spirit — it's pounding my brain - the pressure,' he said, a tremor in his voice. Renzi noticed heavy sweat beading the rash and trembling spasms of long-endured pain. In the confined space his senses swam. He reached out to steady himself, and his hand found the doorlatch; he staggered out of the cabin. The officers gazed at him in silence. He pulled himself together and said, 'Er, the loblolly if you please - I must have assistance.' At least it would buy time.

The lad limped up, and Renzi drew him into the empty Great Cabin. 'I must consult,' he muttered. 'What's to be done?' he asked, with a quiet dignity.

The loblolly looked frightened. 'I — I don't know!' he whispered.

'But you've been surgeon's mate all this while,' Renzi coaxed, 'you must have seen something!'

'Not this!' He dropped his eyes. 'I seen him do things, but he never showed me 'less he wanted something done.'

They would not get anything from the scared boy. Renzi felt a surging despair. It was unfair to expect anything: they had never suffered a killing fever like this before. 'A cruel headache. What did the doctor do for that?' It was at least doing something.

The loblolly thought and said, 'Calomel.' Seeing Renzi frown he added, 'And bleeding, o' course.'

Renzi had been bled once. He barely remembered it as he had been dead drunk at the time, but he had a dim recollection of gleaming steel and a sharp pain in his arm before he had fainted. 'Can you do a bleeding?' he asked the loblolly.

'I never seen it - surgeon always did it private, like.'

Renzi glanced up at Kydd, whose healthy complexion was rapidly paling. Kydd shook his head. 'We must bleed him,' Renzi said, and dismissed the terrified lad. Together they returned to the Captain, firmly closing the door behind them.

'We must bleed you, sir,' Renzi said, trying to sound as confident as he could. He pulled open the surgeon's chest, a neat complexity of compartments containing pharmacy bottles and dried herbs. Inside the lid were clamped a bewildering array of steel instruments.

'Which one do you use?' Renzi whispered. The prospect of cutting into the Captain's living flesh was appalling. He fumbled among the contents of the chest.

'I heard y' use a fleam,' Kydd interjected weakly.

'And which the devil is that?' Renzi said, in a low voice.

Powlett stirred. 'Get on with it, you rogues.'

Renzi's heart thudded. He selected a bright blade with a point; it gleamed evilly in the soft light of the lanthorn. He pulled up Powlett's nightshirt sleeve, baring the pale arm.

'What are you waiting for, you lubber?' Powlett's voice was a weak parody of its former self. His head twisted away in anticipation of the blade.

Renzi hesitated. He pushed the knife against the Captain's skin, which dimpled under the pressure, but he could not steel himself to bring to bear the necessary force. Then he felt Kydd's presence and steadied.

It was easy, really: the knife sank in, and dark, venous blood gouted obediently, turning the bedclothes scarlet, a spreading flood of red that seemed never to end.

'The cup, you mumping fool!' Powlett's muffled voice sounded from the pillow.

'We'll use a glass,' Renzi told Kydd, and took a brandy glass — but by then Powlett had slipped into a swoon.

Shakily, Renzi emerged from the cabin. He told the waiting group what they wanted to hear and left.

Haynes died, never having left the deck once, crouched in great pain against the ship's side, and cursing brokenly towards the end. He was followed by Cundall and three others. But the last man to die caused Artemis the most grief.

Fairfax had the men mustered aft. 'I have to tell you - it is with intolerable feeling — our brave captain is no longer with us.' There were gasps and cries from the few who had not heard the terrible news. The first lieutenant's grey worry-frown deepened. 'Therefore, for the present, and until we return to England, I, er, will be your captain.'

There was no response from the silent mass of men. 'Carry on,' snapped Parry.

'You do that agin, you pocky bastard, an' I'll cut yer liver out!' Stirk's eyes flashed hatred at Crow across the table.

Crow said nothing, but he held his head very still, fixing Stirk with his hard, glittering eyes. Then Crow slowly passed his hand across his chest and began a deliberate scratch under his armpit. Stirk launched himself across the table. Crow snarled and smashed his fist into Stirk's face.

'Stow it, y' mad dogs!' Kydd shouted, trying to force himself between them. Stirk was angry and powerful, but the slighter-built Crow had a dogged tenacity that made it impossible for Kydd to separate them. It eventually ended in a panting truce and bitter words.

Kydd pulled his shabby blue jacket closer. Artemis was now deep into the Atlantic proper, and the first cool precursors of the north were making themselves felt. The fever had run its course, only the poignancy of empty places at familiar seats a reminder of their time of trial. He looked across at Renzi, but the sunken eyes and sallow appearance would take time to dispel. Renzi seldom spoke now.

There was a sullen lethargy about the men that Kydd found difficult to confront: he sympathised with their hard circumstances, which he shared. Since the shock of seeing the body of their captain committed to the deep, there had been a marked decline in the sense of unity and purpose; the loss of such a strong figure at the centre of their world allowed it to fly apart. Petty tyrannies spread unchecked, the humbler members of the power structure suffering the most. The lack of a respected figure to distribute praise or criticism meant that the traditional engine of cohesion was no longer there — and whatever else Fairfax was, he was not a leader.

A bare ten days or less and it would all be over — but Kydd's heart was heavy. It felt as though Artemis herself, sea-worn as she was, was the only one staying loyal and true to Powlett's memory. His hand fell, and under cover of the table he felt for the ship's side and secretly caressed its — her — timbers.

The officers gathering on the quarterdeck for the noon sight stood together. Fairfax lowered his sextant and inspected it. 'I make it thirty-two degrees nineteen minutes north, gentlemen. And that is a bare four hundred leagues from England.' There was a favourable stir. 'I will confess, a fine game pie is haunting me — perhaps in harness with a glass of decent claret not stinking of the bilge.' He handed over his sextant to be stowed below, and stretched, sniffing the steady trade winds. 'It will not be long now, we shall meet our families.'

Kydd, at his post, let the conversation slip past. He watched the helmsman catch a wind-flaw and ease the wheel a spoke or two.

Rowley added languidly, 'I do believe we shall be in time for the Season — the duchess means her daughter to be presented at court this year, and I have the liveliest recollection of Vauxhall gardens by torchlight.'

'There is no likelihood of the Season for me, I fancy,' replied Fairfax. 'We are an old county family and there will be too much to attend to on the estate, more's the pity.' He looked pleasantly at the wooden Party. 'You will be in Town for the Season, or are you to be rusticated?'

Parry said with a set face, 'Neither, sir.' He hesitated, then added, 'I believe I will visit my older sister at Yarmouth.'

'Yarmouth?' said Fairfax. 'Oh.' He and Rowley exchanged looks, then stepped forward together in easy conversation. They halted while Rowley drew out his snuff box and laid some on the back of his hand. Before he could inhale, a playful wind scattered the grains in the air and back over Parry.

Parry's face went red. 'Take your filthy habit somewhere else, sir!' he shouted.

Rowley's eyebrows rose in astonishment. He glanced at Fairfax, then allowed an expression of exaggerated good humour to accompany his urbane inclination of the head. He looked back at Fairfax and burst out laughing.

Storming forward Parry fronted Rowley, breathing deeply and raggedly. 'Be damned to your popinjay ways, Rowley! Your infernal high-born humbug grates on my nerves.'

Fairfax looked shocked. 'Mr Parry! I do hope—'

Ignoring Fairfax, Rowley replied coolly, plucking at the lace of his cuffs, 'Sir, intemperate words do nothing but reflect on breeding.'

'Mr Rowley, this is not—' began Fairfax, his hands flapping, pacifying.

With the entire quarterdeck watching silently, Parry's face clamped in a murderous loathing. 'Rowley, if you cross my bows once more . . .'

'Is this in the nature of a threat, sir?' 'Gentlemen, I implore you - please . . .' 'It is, sir!'

'Then may I take it that as a gentleman you are dissatisfied by my conduct?' 'Gentlemen, please!’

'I am, sir, damn you to hell!' Parry's voice was thick with emotion.

Rowley's voice turned silky. 'Then could it be that you are looking for satisfaction in the matter?' 'Yes, I am!' Parry said hotly.

Instantly, Rowley snapped to attention. 'Then, sir, I accept, as Mr Fairfax is my witness.' Turning to Fairfax, he continued, 'Kindly inform Mr Parry, sir, that my second will wait on his by sunset.'

In the shocked silence Fairfax wrung his hands. 'Gentle-men, can you not be reconciled? Consider, this is a ship of war, we are—'

Parry drew in a breath with a hiss. 'No, sir, we cannot!' With a look of savage content, as of a monstrous burden lifted, he added, 'But of course I will allow Mr Rowley to withdraw.'

Rowley turned away and studied the horizon with his arms folded.

'Then it is my most sorrowful duty to inform you both, that as there is no satisfaction offered, then the matter must come to an unhappy conclusion.' Fairfax paced aft pensively and returned. 'There is no prospect of a meeting until we make landfall in England. It is customary in these matters to refrain from interchanges, but in the meantime, for the sake of the ship, I must ask you both to continue your professional duties, but through an intermediary.' He wiped his forehead forlornly. 'May I express how deeply saddened I am by the way this day has turned out.'

On into the broad wastes of the North Atlantic Artemis sailed, watch by watch, routines performed by rote, duties done with no heart in them. The first Atlantic gales came; once more the smash of seas and hiss of spray over the decks, racing dark clouds, deep thrumming in the rigging.

When Kydd came on watch at midnight, dirty weather had set in to accompany the spiteful blasts of the gale, rain driven with vindictive force that reddened cheeks and eyes.

He set the first helmsmen of the watch, checked the slate by the light of the binnacle and took the state of sail. It was a little surprising that the officer-of-the-watch, Rowley, did not shorten sail in this blow, for Artemis was straining aloft and making hard work of the beat to windward. But then again there would be few who would prefer to lose this chance to reach England the quicker.

Kydd watched Rowley standing ahead of him, huddled in grego and tarpaulin, facing into the blast, but felt no sympathy for him in his larger situation. That was a matter Rowley and Party must resolve, and Renzi's reticence on the subject was sufficient commentary on his views.

Kydd could see forward, past the pale sails to the bowsprit plunging and rearing far ahead with a sudden bursting of spray over the fo'c'sle, and he pitied the hapless forward lookouts at the catheads. Renzi would be with the rest of the dutymen, hanking down after the customary sail-trimming at the turn of the watch. He would be able to take shelter behind a weather bulwark.

The helmsman stolidly met the bullying of the gale, his leeward mate following his motions on the other side, two men necessary in this blow. Kydd was settling down to an uncomfortable and boring watch, when against the buffeting roar of the wind he picked up a lookout's faint cry from forward. It was picked up amidships and repeated immediately, a dreadful yell - 'Breakers aheeeaaad!;. Two points on the weather bow!'

A shaft of cold fear lanced into his vitals. He tensed for Rowley's order - but Rowley seemed to be deep in some sort of reverie. The officer-of-the-watch had the responsibility, and only him. 'Sir!' he bawled in alarm.

Rowley seemed disoriented. 'Helm hard up!' he shouted. This would instantly sheer the vessel away from the danger and away from the wind, on the face of it a sensible move. Kydd roared at the helmsmen and they spun the wheel frantically. The ship bucketed and rocked at the sudden change in direction.

Parry appeared at the fore-hatch and bounded on deck. 'Belay that - hard down the helm!' he bellowed. Kydd hesitated: Parry was senior to Rowley and had every right to overrule him — except that Rowley was officer-of-the-watch and in charge.

'Quartermaster!' said Rowley, in hard tones. 'Inform Mr Parry that I am officer-of-the-watch. I have the ship.'

Kydd's jaw dropped. He looked back at Parry, who bunched his fists. 'Sir, Mr Rowley begs to tell you—'

'Kydd, tell that infernal idiot that the ship stands into danger! Helm hard a-larboard!'

It was clear to Kydd that Parry's order was indeed the right one: admittedly they were now headed away from the breakers, but they were going at an increasing speed to leeward and headlong towards whatever was out there. Parry's order would have had the effect of setting the ship all aback, in stays, but at least it would stop Artemis in her tracks and buy them time to decide.

'Helm hard down,' he snapped at the helmsmen.

Before they could move, Rowley shouted, 'Avast!' He turned to Kydd, although his eyes remained on Parry. 'Enquire of Mr Parry if he is relieving me of my duties, quartermaster.'

Parry's chest heaved, but before he could respond another, more urgent cry came — 'Breakers to loo'ard! I see breakin' sea all t' loo'ard!' The voice ended in a falsetto shriek.

'I have the conn!' roared Parry. 'Helm down — hard over for your lives!' Their run downwind away from the first breakers had placed them in mortal danger from the second. In the loom of night a continuous white line of breakers emerged to leeward and ahead; it was plain they had unwittingly run into the arms of a small bay. Agonisingly the ship's head came around again. They brought up into the wind - but the watch were not at stations to go about, and the vessel fell away to leeward, slewing hopelessly around.

It was now inevitable, and at a little after two in the morning His Majesty's Frigate Artemis ran on to an offshore rocky ledge, part of a small unknown islet somewhere in the Atlantic.

Kydd's world dissolved into a frightful smashing, rearing, splintering chaos. He was flung down and shot forward helplessly over the lurching wet deck in a welter of tarpaulins, to fetch up painfully against the main jeer bitts.

Artemis's bow mounted and fell, and Kydd felt her hoarse shriek as she was mercilessly disembowelled by the invisible black rocks, a long drawn-out sound that tore at his heart.

Around and above him masts and spars swayed forward and gave way at the sudden stop, crashing down like felled trees, and bringing with them a man-trapping, crazy web of rigging from aloft. Her forward motion ceased, and the frigate settled to her bed of pain, her hull lifting and crunching back under the driving waves like a mortally wounded soul trying to rise up again.

Other sounds now broke in on Kydd's senses: screams of agony as men were crushed by falling spars, bubbling shrieks from below as men were drowned by the victorious sea flooding through her shattered bottom. He fought his way out from the tangle of stiff wet ropes, shivering uncontrollably with the mortal cold of deep shock. The perspective from aft had a shocking unreality: all masts were broken off short, draped haphazardly about; the ship was horribly disfigured, desperately wounded.

Numb, Kydd tried to take stock. Dying screams and screeches of agony tore at his nerves. He peered into the rain-lashed darkness, searching for familiarity and security, and through the bleak gloom he saw that they were hard up on an offshore ledge of rocks, a half-mile to seaward of a small, jagged island. But that half-mile or so was a seething mass of white-streaked, storm-driven seas. The boats on the skids amidships were smashed and splintered by toppling wreckage; there was no chance of escape there. A sense of the inevitability of his own death seeped into Kydd.

Stumbling figures in the darkness moved about the deck, shouting and calling; there was no sign of the two officers. The stricken ship continued to lift and drop in an agonising grind, and Kydd's heart wrung in anguish at the torment even as he reached for reality to long-familiar deck fitments.

On the fo'c'sle there was a focus of movement, and Kydd felt drawn to the scene, the only evidence of intelligence in the insanity. He fought and clambered over the heaving wreckage towards it. As he did so Artemis was set upon by ferocious seas around her stern. Her fine run counter was slammed from under by their attack and as Kydd passed the stump of the mainmast, her keel gave way. Twisted by the great forces working at her vitals, the after end of the ship broke in a series of shattering claps of thunder. The stern portion fell at a different angle from the forward -the decking just behind Kydd splintered across and a void opened. The forward part remained immovable on the rocks but the after fell away with a stupendous cracking, a series of lurches now quite independent of the forward. Men clutching the deck on the stern saw their doom - some slid into the ravening chaos between the two, others were still clinging desperately as Artemis's stern-quarters slid backwards into the violence. Kydd's mind froze in deathly fear; unable to move, hypnotised at the awesome scene.

There were scores of bodies in the water now, tumbled and rolled by the contemptuous seas. Released by the breaking hull, these had been the ones asleep below; death had been forced on them instantly. They would have had not the slightest warning of the streaming black rocks that had brutally broken in on them.

The after part quickly receded, sinking as it did so. The few remaining souls leaped or fell into the water. They had no chance at all; smothered by foaming seas, battered by the pieces of black wreckage spewing obscenely from the innards of the ship, they were swept into the outer darkness.

Kydd tore his eyes from the sight and seized hold of his courage. He resumed his scramble forward, crying with grief at the hideous end of his ship and the loss of his friends. Artemis was now a dismembered corpse, lying distorted and still, her bowsprit and rags of headsails spearing up poignantly, pointing at the distant shore. He reached the knot of men on the fo'c'sle. There was no sign of recognition, they were nameless figures working despairingly on the wreckage with their knives. They were trying to bind gratings and planking with ropes to make a raft, but with only their seamen's knives they could make little progress. Kydd did not have his knife, as iron implements were not permitted near the compass. He fell back and hung from the forebitts in utter despair, looking across the white-streaked, rampaging seas rolling shorewards.

A hand clutched at him from behind, and he turned ready to fight off a mindless soul, but found himself staring at Renzi. He gripped his friend for long moments, aware of Renzi's wild, disordered state. Emotion cascaded through him.

Renzi leaned forward and shouted at him, 'Lash ourselves - wait until daybreak!' Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded, and accepted the fall of a clewline cut off by Renzi. The new day would not change things, but at least they could face directly whatever was due to them.

The night wore on in a daze of cold and fear, but at about four, just as a reluctant cold dawn hinted at light, the carcass of Artemis shifted, grinding around to a new angle. The movement destroyed the temporary feeling of security that her motionless wedging on the rock ledge had provided, and at an hour before dawn it was clear that the end would not be long delayed.

Kydd unlashed himself — there was no point in being dragged down by the sinking wreckage — but Renzi pulled him round to face him. 'We must jump,' he said. His voice was strong and even, although his body shuddered with the cold. 'I would take it kindly, dear friend, if you would consent to taking the end of this line.' He was requesting that they be linked by a rope when they made their final leap. Kydd's eyes stung, a lump in his throat at the unfairness of it all, the unreadable harshness of fate, but he took the line and secured it to himself. 'We have shared . . .' began Renzi, but did not finish. Kydd nodded and looked away.

A long, grinding rumble sounded beneath them, and the deck juddered and moved. A sudden lurch came, which sent Kydd staggering, and it was time. They slid to the ship's side, clambered to the rail — and leapt into the sea.

The water closed over Kydd, rushing and roaring in his ears, the sea strangely warm out of the cold blast of the gale. He kicked and flailed, then broke surface, briefly aware of the black bulk of Artemis close by, then was whirled away, spluttering and helpless. There was no question of swimming; he could feel himself in the grip of strong waves that surged and pulled at him. He became entangled in the rope that joined him to Renzi, but it was too chaotic even to know if Renzi was still attached. The tops of waves swept over him without warning and he choked on sea-water. His clothes began to hang as a dead weight, and he knew that he was going down. Thrashing desperately at the water, he breathed in the salty foam, his throat raw and burning as he began to sink.

His legs brutally hit something solid. The rising breakers lifted him up and again his legs struck. Wild with hope, Kydd frantically kicked and fought. Suddenly he was slammed against an unmistakable, sturtly, moving surface. He was carried forward, his body losing its buoyancy as it slithered and floundered across the sand. In an instant, he was aware that his direction had reversed, and he felt himself being pulled back out to sea, back into the frenzy of deep water. In a fury of self-preservation he clawed at the sand, and suddenly found himself left high and dry by the receding wave. It returned before he could do anything, but he had been able to take long, tearing breaths and was ready for the rush of water. Painfully, he levered himself out of the sea, unable to stand, merely to drag himself above the line of waves, where he collapsed, spent.

He raised his head. A few yards along was a shapeless bundle. It was connected to him by a rope, and was very still. His mind refused to accept it at first, but then, with a roaring in his ears, he shouted hoarsely. He staggered to his feet, crossed to the body and fell on it, turning it over, needing to see its face.

Renzi vomited weakly, sea-water pouring from his mouth. He lifted his head to look at Kydd with dull eyes. A slow smile crossed his features and on the tiny beach the two shipwrecked mariners embraced.

A hand touched Kydd's shoulder. He jerked round in surprise and met the eyes of a foreign soldier. 'Nao se preocupe — sua vida esta salvo, pobre marinheiroj the man said softly.

Kydd struggled to his feet but Renzi's voice broke through weakly, 'I do observe, dear friend, that the presence of this man implies two things.' Coughing feebly, he continued, 'First, that this island is inhabited and we are spared an unfortunate death by starvation. Second, he speaks Portuguese -probably this is one of the islands of the Azores. They are our oldest ally and thus we may believe we will soon be homeward bound.'

Kydd hid his leaping happiness behind a dry smile. 'O' course, if there's any officer survived, why, there'll be a mort of explainin' he'll have t' do afore his court-martial,' he said with satisfaction.

'But in course, we shall be witnesses of the first order,' added Renzi, 'and therefore I fear our return to Guildford may necessarily suffer delay.'

Author's Note

At my desk is a length of rope from the 74 gun ship-of-the-line HMS Invincible that two centuries ago struck on the sands off Selsey Bill. The rope still smells of sea and Stockholm tar. I have other relics, too; a seaman's tankard, a gunlock flint, an Admiralty issue clerk's writing kit — each one bringing that far-away world straight into my consciousness. This I value above all things — as the one thing that I would most like the reader to take away from my book is a perception of the reality of Kydd's world.

Some have asked how real are the incidents in Artemis. There is an untold wealth in the histories — but the gold is found in the letters home of a pressed man, the diary of a gunner in Antigua, the musings of retired seamen. What lies in the pages of my book is how it happened as closely as I can render it for today's readers. Sometimes the facts are more amazing than any fiction — Artemis's desperate battle is based on that of the Nymphe and Cleopatre of the time. Maillot's (Million's) gallant act did take place, but in fact it was the Captain's own brother, Israel Pellew, who

personally laid and fired the fatal carronade shot that turned the tide.

Good fortune has played its part in allowing me to indulge my passion: the felicity of having a wife who can walk and talk the plot and characters with me, the enthusiasm of my publisher Hodder & Stoughton and the inspiration from Geoff Hunt's art. With the wider world of a naval scholarship to call upon, how can I not sit down and immediately begin the next book?

Julian Stockwin August 2001