Julian Stockwin - Artemis

A short time later the pair emerged from the shop in fine attire, complete with the latest style of round hat with a dashing curled brim. Wiggling his toes in his smart long-quartered shoes, Kydd laughed with the sheer delight of being rigged out like a true-born son of the sea.

Their steps took them past the anachronistic yet charming white stone walls and turrets of the gun wharf. They turned right towards Broad Street, Kydd's rolling walk just a little exaggerated. In Old Portsmouth a sailor was a natural denizen among the crazy, rickety buildings of the narrow spit of Portsmouth Point.

At the lowering ramparts of King Henry's fortifications they turned right, past the Sally Port, where boat crews came and went from the great fleet at anchor at Spithead. The massive dark stone arch they passed was the last part of England that would be seen by the wretches condemned to transportation to Botany Bay. Kydd shuddered. The last time he had seen these old stones was from seaward, as a new-pressed landman on the foredeck of a line-of-battie ship.

In the narrowing confines it seemed as if the whole sea world had converged on the place. There were seamen in every rig imaginable and from every maritime nation, all brought together by the need to know something other than their harsh sea life.

'Avast there, yer scrovy swabs!' Stirk's familiar bellow broke in on Kydd's musings. He came striding across, his face creasing in delight. Behind him was Doggo, who pointedly lifted a bottle. Stirk stopped, and looked askance at Kydd. 'Well, bugger me days — flash as a rat with a gold tooth!' he said, still grinning. He nodded politely to Renzi, who had chosen more plainly.

'We gotta blow out our gaff, then — shall we lay course to board the Lamb 'n' Flag, me hearties?' The four passed along the street companionably, with the old houses and taverns pressing in on both sides to the end of the spit. There, a shingle beach offered a view into the harbour with Artemis alongside at the dockyard.

Kydd caught the powerful odour of seaweed, wet ropes and tar. But he hadn't long to reflect as they swung through the dark oak doors of the tavern. 'Hey, now! Toby Stirk! Warp yerself alongside, mate.' The roar came from a knot of men at a table to the left. A vast, red-faced seaman laughed and beckoned them over.

'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 artefacts 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 leant 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 sea-wall, and heaved on to 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 rationalise 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 ox-cart 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 Citoy enne, 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 realised 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 wilfulness 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.