Julian Stockwin - Artemis

A cross voice came from the gloom in the hut. 'Fer Cbrissakes!’

'Shut yer face, Lofty,' a second voice grumbled.

'An' all of yez, clap a stopper on it’ snarled another. The voices mumbled and stopped, but sounds of restlessness continued, the absence of deep, regular breathing betraying sleeplessness.

'Be buggered!' a voice said decisively. 'I've a mind ter do somethin' about it.' A dark shape detached from a hammock and crouched down.

'Don' do it, Toby,' another voice urged. 'Blackjack means it, mate.'

'See yez in the mornin',' the first voice replied, fruity with anticipation.

'Rouse out, rouse out — all the haaands’ Heave along there, lash 'n' carry, all the haaands!’ The cries of the boatswain's mates crashed into consciousness, dispelling fitful sleep and sending the sailors automatically out of their hammocks. Bleary-eyed, Kydd stood barefoot on the hut floor.

It was dawn, only just. Outside, the night was giving way to the first shafts of light stealing across the sky. The grass was dew-dappled, a strange feeling to Kydd's bare feet, and he shivered in the cool air. Then his brain registered that this was the first time that Powlett, always considerate of his men, had reverted to sea routine while they were out of the ship. Could it be that they had sighted strange sail in the night? Renzi's watchful face next to him seemed equally concerned.

Boatswain's calls shrieked: l Haaands to muster! Haaands to muster by open list!'

Incomprehension was swiftly replaced by insight as Kydd noticed a cynical smile pass over Renzi's face. Powlett was using the regular routine of mustering the men against their entry in the ship's books as a means of detecting absconders. Sure enough, Powlett stomped down to the beach and waited, grim-faced, for the officers to muster the men of their divisions. The Master-at-Arms waited next to him, Artemis’ detachment of marines in their full accoutrements drawn up behind.

The subdued grey light of pre-dawn gave way to the first signs of the golden flood to come by the time the muster was complete. Marching forward, the officers saluted gravely and muttered something to Powlett before falling back on their men. Powlett clamped his jaw and waited. The men, shaken by his controlled fury, waited also.

It did not take long. Down the path to the beach came all three absentees, shamefaced but with a hint of bravado in their gait. They separated to join their divisions, two to Rowley, the other to Parry.

'Take those men in charge, Master-at-Arms!' Powlett roared, above the cheerful morning chorus of the island. The Master-at-Arms gestured to his corporals who singled out the absentees and brought them defiantly forward.

Powlett did not even glance at them. His eyes were on his ship's company in a steely glare. 'Articles of War,' he thundered.

There was a stir among the men. With that single order Powlett had transformed the occasion from a familiar routine to the awful majesty of a trial — and not only this but a trial in which the evidence had all been heard. Now sentence would be pronounced.

'Article fifteen!' Powlett's voice was powerful and well suited to this duty, to judge and sentence the men of HMS Artemis. 'Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others . . . shall suffer death . . .' The words rolled on, the same grim laws they had heard read out a hundred times on a hundred Sundays. Powlett hardly looked at the words, and finished the recitation with a snarl.

'Do you wish a court-martial?' he asked, as was his duty and the sailor's right. There could only be one answer: if they did request one, they would be obliged to remain in irons until it could be convened. That would not be until they reached Spithead, months and months ahead at best.

'No?' Powlett looked at the men in contempt. 'Twelve lashes apiece. Strip!' It had happened too fast. The men stood dumbly, stupefied. 'Strip!' Powlett's voice cracked like a whip. The men began half-heartedly to pull off their shirts.

'Sir—' It was the boatswain's mate; his voice was small and apologetic.

'Then get one!' Powlett bawled. Crimson-faced, the man doubled away.

The Master-at-Arms came as close as he could behind Powlett and leant forward to whisper. Powlett did not turn but growled a response.

The men, stripped to the waist, were led up the beach to one of the palms rearing up at the edge of the sand. The first was secured with spun-yarn by his thumbs in a parody of the gratings that would normally be rigged for punishment aboard ship.

Powlett waited with a terrible patience for the boatswain's mate to arrive, breathless, with his bag. He nodded, and the marine drummer began a roll. It sounded tinny and unconvincing, the martial sound deadened by the expanse of sand. The boatswain's mate drew out the cat, and measured his swing. The drum continued furiously then stopped suddenly, just as the first blow landed to an agonised gasp. It was the first major punishment Kydd had seen in Artemis. He turned to look at Powlett and caught a flash of feeling briefly cross the hard features, a complex expression, but it could be described simply in one word: grief.

Artemis was upright well before noon, the sight of her truncated masts and hull riding high in the water driving Powlett mercilessly on. The frigate was kedged out to deeper water, all her boats afloat, every soul at work on rope, capstan or oar in the warm zephyrs.

Before the end of the afternoon watch the ship was rigged and the stores were returning aboard in a stream. In the setting sun the job was complete. Artemis was a man-o'-war once more, riding to two anchors and ready for sea.

'Mr Rowley!' Powlett rasped, his relief only partly concealed. 'You will take the first part of the larb'd watch and mount guard ashore over the observatory. You will be relieved in twenty-four hours.' Looking upward at the new-clothed masts he added strongly, 'The remainder will turn to, part-of-ship, and set this vessel to rights.' For the first time in days, there was a thin smile on Powlett's face.

There was no real need, but Kydd took another rope-yarn and added it to the three he was rubbing to and fro on an old piece of canvas on his knee. His work would eventually turn out to be a dolphin for the cro'jack, a simple stout rope with two eyes to prevent nip in the massive yard. There was scope for fine seamanship in the careful pointing to finish over the plain worming and parcelling underneath, and Kydd relished its exercise. 'Do ye not want t' step ashore, Nicholas?' he said to Renzi, similarly engaged next to him. Renzi raised his eyebrows, a sign Kydd knew to be the polite harbouring of a contrary view.

Kydd saw this and grinned. He had paid attention to Renzi's earnest exposition of Rousseau's theories, but his heart had prevailed over his intellect when he had heard of the philosopher's orphaning of his own children in the interests of science, and he had lost sympathy. 'Black Jack is down on us seein' the natives — do ye think he admires y'r Rousseau?' Kydd asked.

Renzi stared back frostily. 'As well you can conceive, he selfishly consults the interests of his own ship, that its warlike powers are not imperilled.' He laid down his yarns. 'Yet I must own to a powerful longing to see, just for a morsel of time, the outworking of pure Nature on humankind. Only that,' he finished lamely. Kydd suspected he was shying from the difficulty of justifying his desire to visit the shore in the face of baser motives.

They both glanced shoreward. 'We're to be guard tomorrow,' Kydd said neutrally. It had been hard seeing the first part of the larboard watch pile into the boats, laughing and boisterous, and shove off for the sweets of the land. But Rowley had called on the Master-at-Arms and three boatswain's mates to land with them — there would be no chance of tomfoolery.