Julian Stockwin - Artemis

Others were summoned and given summary justice, varying in their reactions from resignation to fighting like tigers, but all ending the same way, water flying everywhere and not least upon the bystanders.

Neptune sat back enjoying his judgements, but suddenly he stood up and nourished his trident. 'That man there!' he said, pointing at Lieutenant Parry. 'He smiled!'

Knowing looks were exchanged. The dour Parry was tight and grim in his dealings, humourless to a degree, but contempt of court could not be lightly dismissed — this would be interesting.

'Therefore he must be sick!' The court fell about in laughter. 'Summon my doctor!' An elderly bear, slightly the worse for wear and Western Ocean punch, swayed forward. 'What have you ter cure 'is mullygrubs?' Neptune ordered.

The bear blinked and then leered, pulling out a dark green bottle. 'This'll cure anythin', sire.'

The bears closed in. Party drew himself up, his jaw hard. 'Enough - hold your nonsense, you swabs.' To the bears, who had seen him enjoy the torments of others, this was an invitation. Parry looked despairingly at Powlett, who seemed suddenly interested in the condition of the mizzen staysail downhaul.

'Sir!' he called, but it ended in a yelp, as he was borne to the deck by weight of numbers, and to the cheers and delight of the court was helped to liberal doses of 'saline'.

The jollity increased. Buckets of water, strategically placed in the rigging and operated by a twine trip-line, ensured that those looking to escape by keeping clear of the scrimmage received attention as well.

From his hiding place in the forepeak, Kydd thought the world had gone mad. Sitting cramped on smelly sea stores in the stifling heat, he heard the roars and unknown thuds and rushes overhead. At least he felt safe where he was, a place kindly suggested by Doud: the only entrance was through a small hatch. When a thump of feet sounded above he waited for them to pass but the hatch was thrown open and four bears with evil grins looked down on him. What Kydd hadn't reckoned on was the jigger tackle they had brought, which made easy meat of hauling out their victim.

He flailed wildly as they hoisted him out, but his struggles were ineffective. He was blindfolded and manhandled on deck to the riotous applause of the court seated in the chair of justice. The dread tones of Badger Bag sonorously announced his misdeeds. 'Did fail to wind up the middle watch, in course o' which his shipmates did double tides.'

'Guilty! Guilty!' slurred the gleeful bears.

'How dare he appear before me li' that!' The punch was having its effect on Neptune also. His wife now had baby Amphitrite to comfort, which she did vigorously, then dangled the odd creature from her harpoon.

Needing no prompting the barber's crew went into action. The shock of the sea-water thrown in his face made Kydd open his mouth in protest. This was all they needed, and Kydd found himself choking on a revolting paste.

'Hold!' called Neptune, barely heard by the helpless Kydd. 'Case dismiss'd on account 'e's a iggerant pollywog,' he ordered.

Relieved, Kydd tried to remove his blindfold, but was stopped. 'No, cully, this way.'

He was guided to a plank spanning the water tub and ordered to cross. After some perilous swaying Kydd found himself inevitably plunging in. A generous tankard of punch was thrust at him as he surfaced, and the merriment transferred to the next victim, leaving Kydd rueful but relieved. He drank deeply, and noticed Renzi, also soaked and dishevelled. They roared with laughter together.

The rampageous saturnalia cleared the air, and it was a happy ship that caught the next morning's breeze, when they resumed their southward plunge through deep blue seas and cloudless skies.

The frigate made magnificent sailing, the south-easterly trade winds strong and sure, an exhilarating sail, day after sunlit day, tight to the wind with bowlines on courses and topsails. With six months' sea endurance and a good amount of water from rainstorms, Artemis had no need to touch at the Cape. The only indication they had of reaching the southern tip of Africa was when, within a few days of each other, the south-easterlies had diminished, the chill Benguela current had turned the sea from blue to green, and the globe-encircling westerlies had taken them in hand.

They entered the great Southern Ocean, and for nearly a week they foamed along before the wind, marvelling at the massive undulating swells and the albatross that followed in their wake, barely moving, staying aloft day after day. When at last they altered course northward, the Master's face cracked into a smile, and he and Powlett were seen to shake hands. They were in time to catch the last of the summer monsoon to speed them on to their destination.

As they passed deeper into the Indian Ocean it seemed an anticlimax. Sighting Madagascar, a faint blue-grey smudge far away to larboard, they crossed the Line to the north once more, but this time under a full press of sail.

It couldn't last, however: some days from their destination, after a particularly unpleasant tropical storm, they emerged into different airs. The heavy humidity and sultry heat had been replaced by a definite coolness, and the sky was a pearly cast of uniform dull lightness. The wind had changed from the urging south-westerly to a light, breathy breeze — in their teeth from the north-east.

Artemis braced up sharp, but it would not answer. She had a foul wind for Calcutta and must tack against the wind in long boards alternately, their rate of advance now cut by more than half. It was becoming a soul-deadening tedium.

As they worked closer to their goal they glimpsed tantalising promises of their fabled destination. The floating remains of palm trees, a pair of vultures soaring out from the Deccan, the bloated body of a water buffalo; all were exotica to marvel over. Nearer still, ships were sighted daily: stately Indiamen, the first of the winter monsoon trading season, putting to sea with precious Darjeeling tea; humbler traders with jute — and warlike vessels crammed with opium on their way to the far Orient. There were also Arab dhows, their sweeping diagonal sail and rickety hull looking curious to an Atlantic seaman, and there were other, even stranger coastal craft.

It was enthralling — Kydd was excited by the sights and couldn't wait to see his first truly foreign shore.

'Heard th' Master say we should raise land in a coupla days,' Doud said idly. The cool damp even reached down into the berth deck, and where it was allowed to remain mould grew and made objects slimy and rank.

'An' not before time,' Kydd said. It felt a lifetime since they had left England, under sail the entire time, watch by watch, the days passing in regular progression; days, weeks, months at sea, until he knew every part of the ship with an intimacy he had never thought possible. 'Be good t' know how things are at home,' he mused.

Cundall laughed sharply. 'Don' be stoopid — only way they gonna have word here is with the noospapers we took aboard in Spithead.'

Kydd resented Cundall's tone, but he was the only one of the mess who had been to India before, and Kydd had questions for him.

Renzi stirred. 'Fascinating — in the months we've been at sea, anything could have happened. The war might even now be over, King Louis avenged. And yet, like ripples on a pond, we are our own news . . .'

'So yer've been this way before, Cundall?' Petit said. It was curious, Kydd thought, that nobody called him anything else.

'Yair, bin here once or twice,' he replied smugly.

'Yer like it?' Petit persisted. Cundall's pot went forward meaningfully. Petit filled it and listened.

'Aye, it's a rare enough place ter step ashore — more o' them Injuns yer'll ever dream ter see, thousands of 'em, an' all dirt poor 'n' poxy. Yer falls over 'em in the street, yer hears 'em yak away in this 'eathen talk — place is jus' swarming with 'em.'