Artemis Page 6

  “Yair, well.” Stirk strode across and took the man’s hand and pumped it for a long time. Remembering himself, he gestured at Kydd and Renzi. “’S me shipmates, Ralf, in Artemis frigate we is, see.” Kydd had never seen Stirk so touched, and wondered what poignant tale was behind it.

  The saloon was dusky but comfortable. In the light of the candlesticks Kydd’s gaze took in the exotic mix of characters from half a hundred men-o’-war. Dusty artifacts from the seven seas adorned the walls; wicked lances from the South Seas, faded coconut monkeys from the coast of Africa and the mysterious gold-on-red lettering of the Orient.

  The beer was good—very good, Kydd decided, and he sank another. He was happy to let the wizened sailmaker opposite make the running in the conversation. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Renzi puffing contentedly on his clay pipe, also allowing the talk to flow over him.

  Stirk leaned back. “Sportsman’s Hall in business?” he asked.

  “Millers, is all,” he was told.

  “That’ll do, mates.”

  The group moved to the brightly lit back room, where snarling terriers, restrained by thick leather straps, bayed loudly when the rat cages were brought in. The hubbub rose to a crescendo as bets were laid, Stirk and Doggo to the fore. Kydd held back, he had no real taste for the sport. With his head a-swim with ale he watched the terriers furiously flailing about, biting and worrying at the darting black rats.

  Renzi caught Kydd’s eye, his slow, regular puffing adding to the blue haze in the room. “Shall we withdraw, do you think?”

  Outside the fresh air discommoded Kydd. The excitement of the day had its inevitable effect and he staggered over to the low seawall, and heaved onto the rocks below. Renzi stood back until it was all over. As Kydd recovered, he went into the tavern and reappeared with a pan of water. Kydd accepted it gratefully. Dusting off his new rig, which had miraculously escaped being soiled, he stretched, then looked at Renzi. For no logical reason he felt resentment, not at Renzi but at the world, at things.

  It grew and burned, and gradually took focus. “I need—a woman,” he said thickly, glaring into space.

  Renzi’s expression did not change. “Do you not feel a slattern’s lues a hard price for the joy of the moment?”

  Kydd’s feelings erupted. “D’ye think to preach at me? I do as I will!”

  Looking at him dispassionately, Renzi knew there was no dissuading him. Kydd would have his way, and some raddled trull would know his youth and innocence.

  “And, pray, what shall I tell Princess Sophia?” As soon as it was uttered, Renzi regretted the unworthy spite that made him say it, but it was too late. Kydd turned abruptly and disappeared into the crowds.

  Renzi stood still and watched him go. The coolness of his logic was slipping: he needed to rationalize recent events, to process them into tidy portions fit for inspection by a rational mind. He needed to get away. He trudged north, away from town, with no clear purpose in mind. Before reaching Landport Gate, the landward entrance to Portsmouth, he heard the grinding of an oxcart behind.

  It was a farm worker in embroidered smock and shapeless hat driving two hand of oxen, returning after delivering his produce. Renzi stopped him. “I’d be obliged were you to offer me passage.”

  “Oi has no truck wi’ deserters, tha knows,” the man said doubtfully.

  “Do I sound like one, my friend?” Renzi said, offering silver. The man bit the half-crown piece and grinned widely, patting the bench beside him.

  At the Landport Arch they were stopped by a sentry. Renzi pulled out his ticket-of-leave, and waved it at the soldier. The sergeant ambled over and took a look. “Ah—this ’ere is a Jack Tar orf the Artemis, lad. Come t’ raise the dust after their ’orrible great battle.”

  It was pleasant in the hot afternoon sun. The farmhand was not given to idle chat but had a steady grin of amusement on his homely face. They left Portsea Island and approached the foothills, joining the highway to Petersfield for a short while before taking the steep Southwick road to the summit of Portsdown Hill.

  Bidding the man a courteous farewell, Renzi alighted there, and stretched out on the chalky grass. It was a superb view, high above the coastal plain, looking out over the town and dockyard for miles. The sunlit sea stretched out, the fleet at Spithead dark models against the sparkling flat sea.

  He plucked idly at the grass and let his thoughts run free. He had been taken by surprise at the ferocity of his feelings as they boarded Citoyenne, equally as blood mad as any of his shipmates. The hopeless bravery of the French Captain had impressed him greatly, and he had been touched to hear that Powlett had taken steps to remit a competence to his widow in recognition of this. The value of the coast signals lay in the secret of their recovery, and the world would never know of Maillot’s gallant failure.

  Now he also realized that for all his carefully erected barriers there was a personal vulnerability, an unguarded breach for which his own weakness was to blame. Kydd and he had endured and laughed together too many times for the friendship to be cast aside, and therefore he had to face the fact that through Kydd he was vulnerable. The thought of Kydd’s clumsy attempts at a woman made him wince, as much at the memory of his own past concupiscence and willfulness as anything, for in his own case there had been no excuse.

  The sun beat down and he lay back, letting the tension seep from his bones. He tipped his hat over his eyes. An occasional insect buzz reached him over the gentle sough of the breeze. He lay there, drowsy and tranquil.

  Faint shouts wafted up on the late afternoon breeze, difficult to decipher. Behind closed eyes he tried to make sense of them. Then he heard the vexatious whinny of a horse and the unmistakable gritty progress of carriage wheels.

  Renzi sat up. Bursting into view came a coach, the horses snorting and nodding after the long haul up. But this was no ordinary conveyance: it was fitted out for a cruise by a crew of enterprising sailors. With a flag hoisted at the main, a cargo of a stout keg aft and the inn sign of the Lamb and Flag forward for a figurehead, she was manned by a cheering, drunken crew of seamen from Artemis bent on a roaratorious frolic.

  The coach pulled up and painted doxies fanned out decorously to sink relieved to the grass. Renzi stood up in amazement. The keg was tapped again and again and pots waved assertively in the air as bets were laid on the race down the long hill and back into town. The browbeaten driver nervously checked the traces.

  “Why, damn me eyes if it ain’t Gennelman Jack hisself.” A quartermaster’s mate of Renzi’s slight acquaintance pointed at him in astonishment. Others joined to peer in his direction. Renzi gave a diffident wave and approached. Then from the other side, buttoning the flap on his trousers, came Kydd. He stopped dead.

  For a moment Renzi stood nonplussed, then clapping his new hat over his breast, he loudly declaimed,

  “While up the shrouds the sailor goes, or ventures to the yard

  The landman who no better knows, believes his lot is hard

  But Jack with smiles each danger meets … …

  and drinks his can of grog!”

  Inwardly flinching at the populist doggerel, he was nevertheless met with a storm of cheers. “Welcome aboard th’ barky, shipmate.” A dusty, well-used tankard was thrust at him and he joined the riotous crew, winking at Kydd as he passed to climb inside.

  The coach jerked off down the road, drunken sailors aloft and alow. “Whoay, mateys!” said one, left astern as he scrambled to reach his post aft on the postillion’s seat. The coach rattled and shook in a cloud of dust as it plunged madly down the road, a fiddler scraping a jig alongside the terrified driver. Renzi smiled at the apprehensive women opposite, dust streaked over their caked rouge, their mob caps askew. “Your acquaintance, ladies!” He bowed. Their eyes flashed white as they strove to make sense of it all, the rattling coach now violently swaying.

  The most worldly-wise looked at him in suspicion, his manner so utterly at odds with the open hilarity of the sailors outside. Eventu
ally she appeared to make up her mind and, lifting her chin, stared out determinedly.

  Cheers and whoops came from outside as they plunged past a startled populace, and an upside-down face suddenly popped into frame at the window. “Me pot, Jack,” it said. Not understanding, Renzi hesitated.

  The lady seized a tankard from the apparition and fumbled under the seat for a bottle, which she skillfully upended with only the minimum of slop. She handed it up and glared at Renzi. “These ’ere sailor boys ’r’ all ’ut stands ’tween us an’ the Frogs, matey. You’d begrudge ’em their spree?” Hesitant smiles appeared on other faces—Jack Tar ashore was popular in this part of the world.

  “Indeed no, madam,” he said, sincerely. He glanced out again and saw the town ramparts flash past, sentries scattering. Past houses and cheering taverns they flew. The sailors above kicked up a deafening hullabaloo as they neared their goal, the coach careering dangerously around every corner.

  An excited roar arose, the wheels juddered under locked brakes—and they teetered to a stop, horses a-tremble and the driver with his head in his hands. The crew piled out, arguing loudly, but without a timepiece between them judgment as to records was academic. The keg was unlashed and the driver mollified with silver.

  “Rare time!” said Renzi lightly to Kydd, who had jumped from the roof of the vehicle.

  Kydd brushed himself down, delaying a response. Renzi saw that his eyes were bloodshot and he moved carefully. “Yes,” Kydd said neutrally.

  “Should you desire a roborant, it would be my pleasure to find you one,” Renzi said.

  “Thank ye, that will not be necessary,” Kydd replied. He made no move to walk away, and when Renzi began to walk across the Common, Kydd fell into step next to him.

  “Mrs. Jordan is in town, I understand,” Renzi tried. There was no response, then Renzi saw that it held no particular meaning for Kydd. “She is playing Maltravers in The Fair Dealer of York, apparently,” he continued. Kydd grunted, but Renzi detected a thaw of mood.

  “At Thornton’s,” he added, “on Gosport side.” A quick glance, and he continued, “It could prove a most satisfactory ending to the day were we to experience her talents at the first hand,” he said.

  Kydd cleared his throat. “Is she accounted good?”

  “The very first of the age.”

  Their pennies were refused by the boatman who stretched at his oars with a will. Golden lights sparkled over the harbor and along the lines of ships at Spithead. Occasional bursts of fireworks exploded, the shore still seething with excited crowds.

  Crossing to Gosport, the slop and hurry of waves against the wherry sides was hypnotic and Kydd felt a lifting of spirit. He would never tell Renzi, however, that his gibe about the princess had struck hard and true—he had felt the sweet pain of frustration but he had not surrendered his will to a whore.

  The theater was packed and restless, the heat of the chandeliers and burning lime nearly suffocating. They were not the only sailors in the audience: most in the gallery with them were from Artemis and another frigate, happily chaffing while waiting for the curtain.

  A thin orchestra in the pit struck up, the stridulations of the strings setting Renzi’s teeth on edge, then one by one the chandeliers were lowered and snuffed. The audience stirred expectantly. The curtain swept aside to reveal an impossibly baroque drawing room, white in the glare of the lime light. Patrons quelled the rowdier elements of the audience, and a quiet spread out.

  The silence lengthened. Vague scuffles sounded offstage, and eventually a disheveled reprobate figure shot on, to stand swaying resentfully before the crowd. He staggered over to the high-backed chair and collapsed in it, to the vast delight of the sailors. Hastily, a flourish from the orchestra cut across the jeers and laughter, and onto the stage swept a voluptuous mannish figure. Clad in silk breeches with an exaggerated wig and fashionable cane, the figure acknowledged the storm of applause with dignified bows.

  When the noise had died away the figure advanced to the front of the stage. Absolute silence.

  “Prithee, sir, art anguished at Maltravers’s summons?” was demanded of the recumbent form. The voice was female, husky and powerful. The form continued to stare.

  “Art thou not?” The imperious tone had a venomous edge. There was no response. Suggestive catcalls broke the silence.

  “Sir!” the voice continued silkily. “I see thou art in liquor!” The cane flashed out and caught the form in the midriff, doubling him over.

  “But stay, this do I well comprehend!” The shouting died away. With dramatic intensity Maltravers strode to the edge of the stage. “What man, a drop of English blood in his veins, can stand unmoved at the news—the thrice welcom’d news—that the dastardly French have been bested at sea! By Artemis frigate in a duel at arms at which there could be but one victor—bless’d Albion it was …”

  The rest of the extempore speech was drowned in an avalanche of cheering, wild, unashamed exultation. Bowing left and right, Maltravers held up “his” hands for silence. “‘Come cheer up, me lads, ’tis to glory we steer …’” The whole theater stood and broke into the Garrick favorite, feverishly accompanied by the orchestra. Kydd’s face flushed as he sang along with insatiable pride.

  The play moved on in a wordy stream. Renzi looked to see its effect on Kydd. To his amused dismay he saw that his friend was no longer concerning himself. He was slumped in his seat, fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  Next day the men moved slowly and stoically, stripping Artemis of her guns and stores preparatory to her docking. Her grievous wounds were laid bare, and her injured spars sent down to a dismayed clucking from boatswain Merrydew.

  Noon came, but few could stomach the cold rations supplied by the receiving hulk lashed alongside. After an all-night-in, Kydd was feeling better, and when the day was done and liberty was piped again, he felt ready to step ashore with the larbowlines once more.

  He sat quietly as Renzi plaited his glossy pigtail. He had cleaned his new rig carefully for who knew what adventures lay ashore, and with prize money still to spend they would take their pick of the pleasures of the land.

  “Hoay, Tom!” The hail from the hatchway was Doud, looking for him.

  “What cheer, mate?” Kydd called back.

  Doud had an expression of marked curiosity. “Officer o’ the day passes the word for Tom Kydd.” He paused for effect. “It’s a visitor at the brow askin’ after you, my frien’. A lady visitor.”

  A rumble of ribald interest from around Kydd made him ask, “Should y’ call her, might we say, taut rigged?”

  “As saucy and trim a barky as ever graced the seas—an’ a fine figurehead with it,” Doud acknowledged. This did not at all sound like a common drab, should one be bold enough to seek him out.

  “Spread more sail, mate, an’ yer’ll soon board her in rollicking style,” urged Petit, with a huge grin.

  Hurriedly checking his rig, Kydd leapt up the hatchway ladder, closely followed by half the mess deck. Striding up to the master’s mate he demanded, “Where away, Mr. Shipton?” With a grin, the man indicated a dark young lady standing diminutive and lonely on the dockside.

  It took a few moments, for it had been another place, another lifetime—but he recognized his only sister, Cecilia. Impetuously, he clattered down the gangway to the stones of the dock and crushed her to him.

  “Oh, Thomas, my dear, my very dear …” She wept, and clung to him, her femininity utterly disarming. She pushed him away and dabbed at her eyes. “Thomas! Look at you! I would never—you are a man!”

  Kydd blushed, and she giggled at his discomfiture, but did not let go his arms. Her eyes flashed in that familiar way; she swung him round to face the ship again, her arm through his. “Do introduce me to your ship, Thomas.”

  In earlier years this imperious behavior would have resulted in an instant squabble, but now Kydd could think of no easy rejoinder. He looked up and saw the line of men at the deck edge gazing down. Slowly t
hey mounted the gangway, her arm primly on his, her manner decidedly possessive. The men looked on with interest. They reached the bulwarks, the men fell back into a semicircle, and she accepted his awkward assistance to the deck with a dainty “Thank you, Thomas.”

  The sight of his shipmates, sea-hardened and battle-proved to a man, so transparently agog, was too much for Kydd. A smile pulled at his mouth. “Now, please behave y’rself, sis,” he whispered.

  Renzi stood back, impassive.

  Kydd took off his hat and held it across his chest. “Gentlemen, I have th’ honor to introduce Miss Cecilia Kydd, my worthy an’ only sister.”

  A sigh went through the group. Renzi performed an elegant leg, but in the main hats flew off and there was a gawky shuffling from men quite unused to ladies of Cecilia’s evident quality.

  Kydd watched his sister’s gratification in amusement. She was perhaps too strong-featured on her smaller frame, but her dark looks were appealing in their directness and she was undeniably handsome. She curtsied to Renzi and gave him a dazzling smile. She nodded to the others, instinctively giving best to Petit, who fawned on her ridiculously.

  Kydd had the sense to move her forward to Shipton, who exchanged bows and polite courtesies. Of course it was in order for Kydd to show her the ship. A veiled reference to the cockpit was a warning that the midshipmen would perhaps be entertaining women of quite another sort, and the boatswain would, by now, be indisposed.

  There was little to see in a frigate stripped of most of her guns and fitments, but enough remained to give an idea of life aboard. Accompanied by the enraptured men Kydd escorted Cecilia forward. “That there’s where we keep the boats,” he said, pointing to the skid beams straddling the open space of the spar deck amidships.

  “Where th’ seaboat is kept, if’t please yer, miss,” Petit added.

  “An’ the longboat, in course,” Adam said eagerly.