Julian Stockwin - Artemis

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. Eventually 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 skilfully up-ended with only the minimum of slop. She handed it up and glared at Renzi. 'These 'ere sailor boys Y 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 judgement 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 harbour 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 theatre 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 dishevelled 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 on to 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' 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 theatre stood and broke into the Garrick favourite, feverishly accompanied by the orchestra. Kydd's face flushed as he sang along with insatiable pride.