Julian Stockwin - Artemis

'Abe, yer must've had a such a time of it - women, all the vittles a man c'd want, nothin'. to do. Why d'ye want ter go, mate?' asked an older sailor.

'Aye - it's paradise here,' added Doud. Gurney didn't answer at first, looking from one to the other with his head oddly cocked to one side as if in distrust of his audience. 'Yer think it is, shipmates?'

'Yair, paradise right enough,' said a young foretopman. Leaning forward, Gurney responded passionately, 'I grant ye, the weather's always top-rate, an' the vittles are there fer the takin', but think on this. You don't have nothin' to do! A-tall! Yer want anythin', yer reaches out an' picks it off a tree or somethin'. You never works, never gets the satisfaction,

each day th' same. Never see y'r own kind, never speak to a Christian soul — and the rest o' the world just ain't there, fer all ye hear of it. Fer all I know, King Louis may've come ter take back his Louisiana from the Spanish.'

Sardonic looks were exchanged. 'No, cuffin, King Louis ain't no more,' Doud told him gently. 'Frogs, they has a revolution o' their own, an' separates 'im from 'is 'ead.'

Gurney's eyes widened. 'Then how . . .'

'They has some sort o' citizens', er, parleyment - the gentry got their heads lopped off an' all, see.' Doud was clearly having difficulty with the idea that someone could be ignorant of the tumult of blood that was convulsing the world.

'And we're at war with the Crapauds — they're hard t' beat on land,' said Kydd, 'but they can't best us at sea,' he added, with feeling. He thought over other events of the last four years — the shocking mutiny on the ship Bounty, the Terror in Paris, George Washington becoming the first President of America, these things Gurney would learn about in time.

'Yeah, but me here with a bunch o' heathen, always feudin' and fightin', struttin' up 'n' down like.' He stared gloomily at the remaining figures on the beach. 'I seen sights'd make yer blood run cold. They're murderin' heathens, shipmates.'

Kydd thought of Renzi. High-minded thoughts would be no proof against the savagery of the warriors should they grow tired of peaceful trade. His thoughts drifted back to Tamaha. He would see her again tomorrow. Would she be thinking of him now? Would he tell Renzi of her? He knew that he was not immune to feminine charms — their rivalry over Sarah Bullivant had shown that. Sarah! The name caused a stab of feeling, but he had now detached that part of his past into a self-contained unit that carried her memory.

Darkness lay softly over the island, and Kydd finished the last of his meal, a boiled concoction of salt beef and yam served in a half coconut shell. Still no sign of Renzi. A buzz of talk washed about him. He lay back on the grass and gazed at the stars, thinking of nothing in particular, just enjoying the night air.

Drowsy, he went to the living hut. Their hammocks were still slung and the matting sides were rolled up to give an airiness to the warm night. As he climbed aboard his hammock Kydd saw a dark form by Renzi's position. 'Nicholas?' he called softly. The form froze. 'Is that you back with us?'

'Yes,' said Renzi shortly.

Kydd sensed a bridge had been crossed. 'Did you . . .'

'I had the transcendent experience of communicating with the savages in their innocence,' Renzi said stiffly.

So there would be no revision of Rousseau's Noble Savage. Kydd wondered what form the communication had taken, given the total lack of a common tongue. 'John Jones was taken by a devil fish,' he said. 'It was the strangest thing y' ever saw, just a single bite an' he was destroyed — Nathaniel Gurney says it was the Scorpion Fish, very bad. An' he also says as how the savage are treacherous heathens, given to murderin' each other and—'

'Gurney is a fool,' Renzi spat, 'an ignorant wastrel who, like us, is causing the foul corruption of civilisation to lay its dead hand on these islands.'

'How so?' Kydd replied, with heat. 'D'ye despise even y'r own society?'

Renzi paused, and Kydd could hear his angry breathing. 'I beg — we will talk no more of it,' Renzi said, his voice thick.

Kydd bit off his reply and settled in his hammock.

He awoke late with a muzzy head after a night of conflicting dreams. He looked over the edge of his hammock to Renzi's, but his friend had left — as he was entitled to, Kydd reminded himself. Their spell of duty did not begin until noon.

Tamaha was nowhere to be seen, and he didn't feel like going down by the lagoon or taking the steep climb to the peak. He wandered up to the observatory platform. The observations had begun, and Kydd watched Evelyn's total concentration at the gleaming brass instruments and his quick scrawls as he added to his growing pile of papers. Hobbes glowered at the inquisitive onlookers and continued his dour ministrations.

'You, sir — yes, you!' It was Evelyn, beckoning to him while he remained bent at an eyepiece. Kydd came obediently, knowing that Evelyn was not given to idle whims. 'Be so good as to advise me, Mr Mariner. My glass has a propensity to tremble and sway in this rather forthright breeze. It makes a ruination of my figures.' He waved at the slender brass length of his instrument up on its wooden platform.

Kydd saw how the long optical piece was being affected by its length. 'I believe y' have here a mizzen gaff right enough, yet wanting its rigging.' He pursed his lips. 'I'll return with the necessaries.' Evelyn nodded, bemused at the mysterious metaphor.

Returning with a hank of spun-yarn, Kydd capably set up a pair of vangs each side of the instrument leading to its outer end from the stout support posts of the platform. He contrived a deadeye on one side, which allowed him to tighten the 'rigging' to a harp-like tautness. 'There,' he said, with satisfaction. 'Do y' take a look through y' optics now.'

Evelyn bent and took the eyepiece again. 'Ah! The very wonder of the age — here we have a rock-like stillness.' He relinquished the instrument and stepped down. 'My thanks, Mr Mariner.' Noticing Kydd's interest he added, 'We have in these papers an infinitely precious aggregation of data, which when matched with simultaneous observations in Greenwich will settle once and for all the precessional paradox.'

Nodding wisely, Kydd noticed the care that Evelyn took in replacing the papers in a polished wooden box. No doubt this contained a final product of why the frigate had travelled so far to this remote region.

'I have not seen your friend, er . . .'

'Nicholas Renzi.'

'Just so. Presumably he is distracted in making sport with the ladies of these islands.'

Kydd tried to suppress a smile. 'He is not. He has a hankerin' after the theories of Mr Rousseau, an' believes that we corrupt the savage by our civilisation.'

Evelyn's eyebrows rose. 'Rousseau? You have debated him?' He looked out over the glittering blue ocean and continued, 'For myself, I cannot bear the bigot or his loose thinking, but in this instance I am inclined to believe he is right, we are a plague on these people. The sooner we are sailed the better I shall like it.' He swung up to the platform again. 'Pray excuse, I must return to my work.' Kydd knew he was dismissed from Evelyn's universe.

Parry was not the officer to accept weak excuses. Absence from place of duty was a dereliction that could not and would not be forgiven. The offender would get no sympathy from the rest of the duty watch either, for they had probably themselves been torn from willing arms to report. Kydd fretted for Renzi, who had probably wandered off in search of some marvel of nature. Possibly he had found an old native philosopher and was carrying on a deep conversation by signs. Now he was on report to the Captain who would stop his liberty or worse.

Duty ashore was not arduous. There were stands of muskets to hand, and the stockade to patrol, but against whom it was not clear. Companionable tasks included assisting the cook to prepare the evening meal, repairing the hut matting and the like. Less companionable was the sentry-go, which involved porting a heavy musket in solitude along the length of the stockade.