Julian Stockwin - Artemis

The far-off bark of a gun broke through the hullabaloo, the smoke eddying away from the bow of a naval cutter trying to break through the scrimmage. It fussed its way alongside.

The group of seamen forward watched as an officer clambered aboard and a polite exchange followed on the quarterdeck. Then things moved swiftly. The tow was cast off, and lighters and hulks gathered about to take the prize in hand leaving the battle-pitted Artemis to proceed on alone under easy sail. Their salute to the Admiral at Spithead banged out regularly, but they passed the great fleet at anchor without stopping - they would enter the harbour itself.

Artemis shortened to topsails for the last mile into the narrow entrance, the line of passage taking her parallel with the shore a bare couple of hundred yards to starboard, past the furiously cheering crowds that swarmed over every imaginable viewpoint. Grateful that his station in the foretop allowed him to witness these marvellous events, Kydd looked out on a scene that he knew would stay with him all his life.

A gun went off below him. It startled him: they had no reason to salute. Then a seaman pointed out the colourful standard hoisted on the dockyard signal tower. "Is Nibs,' he said laconically.

The salute banged on - the full twenty-one for the King of England. They were now passing through the close entrance. They glided past the rickety old buildings of Portsmouth Point close in to starboard, every window full of cheering figures. On the opposite side of the entrance was the darkened brick solidity of Fort Blockhouse, and beyond it Haslar naval hospital. As many wounded and sick sailors that were able to had hobbled down to the water's edge, and a military band thumped out 'Hearts of Oak'.

On they sailed, past the low white medieval turrets of the gun wharf, then where the harbour inside widened again, to Portsmouth Hard with its taverns and hostelries alive with crowds. Two men-o'-war moored mid-stream had manned ship. Hundreds of men lined along bare masts and yards gave full-throated cheers to the now famous frigate.

Abruptly they were upon the long dockyard buildings. There was a flurry of activity as Artemis swung about into the wind and slowed. Her sails were brailed up and lines were relayed ashore by waiting boats and they were warped in alongside the dock.

Aware of the official welcoming party on the quay, Kydd felt uneasy and self-conscious, on the one hand wishing that the assembly of pomp and finery could be somewhere else, and on the other seized with a thrill of expectation.

With her sails in a harbour stow and the running rigging secured and flemished down, a special gangway was positioned from the quarterdeck to the dock. It had white canvas-covered rope hand-lines, and on each supporting post there was a small royal crest.

'Into line, Kydd!' The harsh whisper from the Master-at-Arms caught him by surprise. 'Sideboy!' the man snapped, seeing that Kydd did not react immediately. He was pushed into a double line of men at the head of the gangway after the boatswain's mates. At the inner end of the line the Captain and officers waited, their tension evident. On the wharf a similar line of redcoats formed facing each other with muskets rigidly at the present.

'Stand by!' snapped Rowley, the officer-of-the-watch. The boatswain's mates whipped up their silver calls to the ready. There was silence throughout the ship. The noises of celebration outside the dockyard gates sounded even rowdier.

'Pipe!' Rowley rapped. The calls blasted out together and Kydd's eyes slid to the small group who slowly mounted the gangway. In the lead was King George and behind him, the Queen.

When the monarch reached the deck the piping ceased. No one moved a muscle. Genially, King George looked about him, not more than a few feet from Kydd. He paced forward a step or two, glancing around with interest, then turned to his aide-de-camp. 'Soon took the gloss off the sides of the Frenchy, showed him the way into Portsmouth Harbour, hey - hey?' His large rubicund face lit up.

'Indeed so, sire.'

The kindly eyes turned to Kydd.

A voice from behind murmured, 'Thomas Kydd, foretop-man, sir.'

The King nodded. 'Where are ye from?'

Kydd's heart stopped. 'Guildford town — er, Y'r Majesty,' he said, touching his forehead automatically in a naval salute. Too late he realised that kings would probably expect something more in the way of a bow.

The broad white eyebrows rose. 'Fine place for turnips, very fine! An' sheep too - prime sheep, y'r Surrey cross’ He looked at Kydd somewhat bemused, as if finding it hard to reconcile farming talk with the strong young sailor before him.

Before Kydd's frozen brain could think of a reply, his sovereign had moved on to address others, but Kydd was content simply to stare ahead, suffused with happiness. Nobody at all in his acquaintance, high and low, had ever claimed an introduction to the King himself!

There was a murmuring of the most elegant politeness as Powlett's officers were introduced and the party moved down the main hatchway to view the scars of battle.

Kydd heaved a sigh of relief, but by this time others had mounted the gangway, and the quarterdeck was getting crowded. With a rustle of material a vision in light rose and cream paused in front of him. The girl pouted and fingered the sturdy black anchor buttons on his jacket. 'You lif on the schip all zer time?' she uttered, in thick, German-accented English. Kydd could only nod while he thought frantically how he should address a foreign princess. His brain could only come up with half-remembered stories of princesses in fairy tales.

She was a good head shorter than him, and her clear pale eyes looked up at him through extraordinary long eyelashes. Her hairstyle was markedly plainer than the other women's, and was not caked in powder. 'Pliss to show me your brafe schip,' she begged, and smiled winningly.

She would only be about seventeen, what remained of his objective mind observed. Reddening to the roots of his hair, Kydd mumbled something and pushed through the gawping crowd forward. To larboard of the mainmast was a stubborn darkening of the deck planking. 'Where our first lieutenant, er, fell.'

Her hand flew to her mouth as she took in the implications of the stain, then she turned back to him.

'He lives yet,' Kydd stuttered, 'he is below at this, um, time.' He tried a bow, but his body was not the willowy type, and it turned out an awkward jerk. Her long gloved hand touched his arm as she pealed with laughter. After a moment Kydd joined in.

'Ah, Sophia, there you are.' A tall hussar in dark green uniform, gold frogging and ornate hat slipped neady between the two of them, his back to Kydd. 'Allow me to escort you around the boat,' he said, offering his arm.

She pulled free, and defiantly dropped Kydd a magnificent curtsy. She held it, her eyes locked on his. The moment passed, then she laughed delightedly, and took the soldier's arm. She moved away, throwing a single glance back at Kydd, who stared after them, afraid to break the spell.

All the haaaandsl All hands on deck - lay aft!'

Kydd, at the fore-royals, had caught a glimpse of his princess as the party went ashore. She was looking up, as if searching among the hundreds of cheering men.

The ship's company had only just come down from manning the yards for a three times three for His Majesty. The King had paused on his way back through the lines of redcoats and turned, clearly affected. He bowed this way and that while the huzzahs echoed from the buildings, the sailors redoubling their efforts at his unfeigned pleasure.

They assembled now on the main deck below the boat-space, and on the gangways each side, some hanging in the rigging to get a better view. Powlett stood forward of the wheel, his face working under evident emotion.