Julian Stockwin - Artemis

And the rain came down. Walls of warm, gusting tropical rain in quantities so huge that it forced Kydd down as though he were caught in a waterfall. Breathing was almost impossible, and he lowered his head to avoid the worst of the water tumbling down on him. Hair streaming, clothes plastered to his body, his mind went numb. It went on and on, the ship trembling and directionless, heading for who knew what inevitable destruction.

Kydd felt a grip on his arm. Through blurred vision he saw Renzi and, to his astonishment, realised that the man was laughing. He felt anger welling up, an indignant resentment that Renzi was enjoying the experience, no doubt adding it to his store of philosophic curiosities. He tore away his arm and resumed his posture of endurance, but it was no good, the spell had been broken. Reluctantly he had to concede that if modern learning could proof a man against nature's bluster then perhaps it had some merit.

He looked up again and grinned slowly. The heavens rattled and roared but in some way the storm's sting had been drawn, and within the hour its fury had moderated. The rain petered out, and the blackness began to dissolve, the lightning spending itself in vicious flickers that whip-cracked right across the sky.

The last of the darkness was passing overhead. Rueful, soaked figures fumbled about on the streaming decks.

'Haaaands to make sail!'

Kydd moved to the larboard fore-shrouds and swung himself up for the climb into the foretop. But before he had risen a dozen feet there was a single dazzling flash and a clap of thunder so tremendous that it shook the ship with its concussion.

Deafened, he clung to the shrouds, shaking his head to clear it. As his eyes tried to adjust to the dark and his ears stopped buzzing he became aware of a commotion on the opposite side. The shrouds there gave off wisps of steam along their length. Still muzzy from the shock of the discharge Kydd couldn't understand. Then he realised - there had been one last spiteful play of lightning, and it had struck the foremast but by chance had passed down the opposite shrouds, to the iron of an anchor and into the sea.

Trembling at the thought of his near escape from an unspeakably violent death Kydd dropped to the deck and went over to see the results of the strike. The lines of rigging were randomly patterned with steaming black. Above, still clinging to the shrouds, were the silhouettes of three men, ominously still. Others climbed up beside them. There were shouts, high-strung and chilling — Kydd knew with a sinking inevitability what they had found.

By the light of a lanthorn they crowded round the stiff, discoloured corpses as they were lowered down. Even the eyeballs had burst in the white heat, and the bodies had swollen to grotesque proportions. There was the sound of retching before canvas was brought to cover the indecency.

Dying rumbles followed the black mass as it fell away to leeward as rapidly as it had approached, leaving the stars to resume their calm display.

'No, me boy, we sank Africa astern three, five days ago,' said Merrydew. For him the heat was a trial, his corpulent figure sweaty, his movements slow and reluctant.

Kydd found it confusing. From his barely remembered geography lessons he recalled that Africa was a fat pear shape running north and south. If they were to round its southern tip to reach India, why were they heading away?

'Because we're makin' a westing, that's why,' the boatswain explained. To Kydd it seemed as nonsensical as ever. Patiently, Merrydew carried on. 'These latitudes, why, much further the wind gives up altogether, none to be had. Bad - we calls it the doldrums. We wants to avoid 'em, so we makes a slant over to t' other side o' the ocean afore it gets too bad. We then crosses the Line into the south half o' the world and slants back with an opposite wind — see?'

It was wearisome, life in the tropics aboard a frigate. The hardest thing was the intense humidity below decks, only partly relieved by wind scoops at the hatches. The next most difficult thing to bear was the food. Their molasses ran out, and the morning burgoo tasted of what it was, oatmeal months in the sack, malodorous and lacking flavour but for the insect droppings. Quashee did his best with the little store of conveniences, occasionally reaching heights of excellence. In the flying-fish belt he produced a legendary gazy pie, the little fish heads peeping up through the crust all around, and flavoured with hoarded garnishings.

The wind had been light and erratic for days now, a trying time when the hauling on lines had to be done under a near vertical sun beating down, which blasted back at them from the water.

One morning the wind died away entirely, the sea disturbed only by a long but slight swell. The heat was close to intolerable, despite the awnings, and the boatswain's red face swelled. The sails hung in folds from the yards, barely moving; the ship, with a sluggish roll, was without any kind of steerage way. Artemis drifted aimlessly in the mirror-like sea.

Nobody spoke, it cost too much effort. At three in the afternoon, a flaw of wind darkened the water. On the quarterdeck Powlett in his thin, threadbare shirt looked meaningfully at the figure of the Master.

It was what they had been waiting for. A wind - but from the south-east! They had already reached the winds of the south. The change in spirits aboard Artemis was remarkable. Although they had to wait until evening for the winds to reach a point where the sails began to fill and the rudder to bite, all talk was on the future.

'Got our slant - gonna be shakin' hands with them Kidderpore fillies in a month.'

'Hassiiming that we get in afore the monsoon shifts about.'

Happy chatter swelled, but Petit remained serious as he cradled his pot.

'Anythin' amiss, Elias, mate?' Stirk asked. His powerful body was, as usual, naked from the waist up, an expanse of damp mahogany muscle.

'Yes, mate,' Petit replied quietly.

The talking stopped and the group on the fo'c'sle looked over at him in the lanthorn light. 'How so, cuffin?' Stirk said softly.

'You knows, Toby, youse a man-o'-war's man an' unnerstands.' Stirk didn't reply, but a frown lined his face. 'Recollect, shipmate, we're in th' south now, and we ain't never had a visit from 'Is Majesty.'

Stirk's face eased fractionally. 'But o' course,' he murmured. When Kydd looked again he had disappeared.

It looked as though the wind would hold. The morning breeze had stayed and strengthened just a little, and with the lightest possible canvas spread abroad they were making progress. Powlett stood with his arms folded, squinting up at the undulating sails as they played with the breeze. The Master was next to him, willing on the winds.

Kydd was tricing up the after end of the quarterdeck awning and could hear the pleased conversations — whatever was in those secret orders, he guessed they must include every stricture for speed.

The boatswain came aft, and touched his hat. 'Sir,' he said, 'with m' duty, just found this paper near the quarterdeck nettings, thought you'd want t' sight it.'

Taking the paper, Powlett's face hardened. The ploy was often used to allow crew members to convey discontents anonymously aft. He read on, his expression grim. 'King Neptune? It's a nonsense, Mr Merrydew!' he roared. The boatswain stiffened. 'And a damnable impertinence!' Powlett snapped, and ripped the paper in two. The pieces fluttered to the deck. The boatswain's chin jutted belligerently: the customs of the Sea Service were not so easily to be put aside.

Turning to the Master, Powlett said loudly, 'Mr Prewse, pray tell us our position.'

Rubbing his chin, Prewse looked up at the sky. 'Well, sir, near enough . ..'

'Our position, sir!'