Artemis - Kydd 02 Read online

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

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

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

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

  'Yes,' Kydd said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'You shall,' Prewse said sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The minutes dragged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Prepare our salute, Mr Fairfax.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Stand off, the boat!' roared Quinlan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'I shall wait, however long it takes.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Hobbes eased back in sati
sfaction.

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

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

  'Assistant?' Powlett snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'An' what's that?' Haynes snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Haynes cursed.