Julian Stockwin: Artemis

They escaped with the surgeon's bulky chest — a hurried search had not turned up any book worthy of the name — and rapidly made their way to the Captain's bedplace cabin. He was lying quietly in his suspended cot, his eyes closed. Renzi set down the chest carefully, conscious of the tense presence of the officers and the Captain's coxswain.

'Pray leave us. He is, er, not to be excited,' Renzi pronounced. At least they would not blunder about in front of an audience. He looked apprehensively at Kydd: in all his rich and varied life he had never been in such a bizarre and helpless situation.

At his words, Powlett opened his eyes. 'Renzi!' he said thickly. 'Do your duty, man!'

Renzi blinked. Do something, his very being shouted. But if he did the wrong thing? 'Does it pain you, sir?' he opened.

'Yes!' Powlett said briefly. 'And this goddamned headache is oppressive to my spirit — it's pounding my brain - the pressure,' he said, a tremor in his voice. Renzi noticed heavy sweat beading the rash and trembling spasms of long-endured pain. In the confined space his senses swam. He reached out to steady himself, and his hand found the doorlatch; he staggered out of the cabin. The officers gazed at him in silence. He pulled himself together and said, 'Er, the loblolly if you please - I must have assistance.' At least it would buy time.

The lad limped up, and Renzi drew him into the empty Great Cabin. 'I must consult,' he muttered. 'What's to be done?' he asked, with a quiet dignity.

The loblolly looked frightened. 'I — I don't know!' he whispered.

'But you've been surgeon's mate all this while,' Renzi coaxed, 'you must have seen something!'

'Not this!' He dropped his eyes. 'I seen him do things, but he never showed me 'less he wanted something done.'

They would not get anything from the scared boy. Renzi felt a surging despair. It was unfair to expect anything: they had never suffered a killing fever like this before. 'A cruel headache. What did the doctor do for that?' It was at least doing something.

The loblolly thought and said, 'Calomel.' Seeing Renzi frown he added, 'And bleeding, o' course.'

Renzi had been bled once. He barely remembered it as he had been dead drunk at the time, but he had a dim recollection of gleaming steel and a sharp pain in his arm before he had fainted. 'Can you do a bleeding?' he asked the loblolly.

'I never seen it - surgeon always did it private, like.'

Renzi glanced up at Kydd, whose healthy complexion was rapidly paling. Kydd shook his head. 'We must bleed him,' Renzi said, and dismissed the terrified lad. Together they returned to the Captain, firmly closing the door behind them.

'We must bleed you, sir,' Renzi said, trying to sound as confident as he could. He pulled open the surgeon's chest, a neat complexity of compartments containing pharmacy bottles and dried herbs. Inside the lid were clamped a bewildering array of steel instruments.

'Which one do you use?' Renzi whispered. The prospect of cutting into the Captain's living flesh was appalling. He fumbled among the contents of the chest.

'I heard y' use a fleam,' Kydd interjected weakly.

'And which the devil is that?' Renzi said, in a low voice.

Powlett stirred. 'Get on with it, you rogues.'

Renzi's heart thudded. He selected a bright blade with a point; it gleamed evilly in the soft light of the lanthorn. He pulled up Powlett's nightshirt sleeve, baring the pale arm.

'What are you waiting for, you lubber?' Powlett's voice was a weak parody of its former self. His head twisted away in anticipation of the blade.

Renzi hesitated. He pushed the knife against the Captain's skin, which dimpled under the pressure, but he could not steel himself to bring to bear the necessary force. Then he felt Kydd's presence and steadied.

It was easy, really: the knife sank in, and dark, venous blood gouted obediently, turning the bedclothes scarlet, a spreading flood of red that seemed never to end.

'The cup, you mumping fool!' Powlett's muffled voice sounded from the pillow.

'We'll use a glass,' Renzi told Kydd, and took a brandy glass — but by then Powlett had slipped into a swoon.

Shakily, Renzi emerged from the cabin. He told the waiting group what they wanted to hear and left.

Haynes died, never having left the deck once, crouched in great pain against the ship's side, and cursing brokenly towards the end. He was followed by Cundall and three others. But the last man to die caused Artemis the most grief.

Fairfax had the men mustered aft. 'I have to tell you - it is with intolerable feeling — our brave captain is no longer with us.' There were gasps and cries from the few who had not heard the terrible news. The first lieutenant's grey worry-frown deepened. 'Therefore, for the present, and until we return to England, I, er, will be your captain.'

There was no response from the silent mass of men. 'Carry on,' snapped Parry.

'You do that agin, you pocky bastard, an' I'll cut yer liver out!' Stirk's eyes flashed hatred at Crow across the table.

Crow said nothing, but he held his head very still, fixing Stirk with his hard, glittering eyes. Then Crow slowly passed his hand across his chest and began a deliberate scratch under his armpit. Stirk launched himself across the table. Crow snarled and smashed his fist into Stirk's face.

'Stow it, y' mad dogs!' Kydd shouted, trying to force himself between them. Stirk was angry and powerful, but the slighter-built Crow had a dogged tenacity that made it impossible for Kydd to separate them. It eventually ended in a panting truce and bitter words.

Kydd pulled his shabby blue jacket closer. Artemis was now deep into the Atlantic proper, and the first cool precursors of the north were making themselves felt. The fever had run its course, only the poignancy of empty places at familiar seats a reminder of their time of trial. He looked across at Renzi, but the sunken eyes and sallow appearance would take time to dispel. Renzi seldom spoke now.

There was a sullen lethargy about the men that Kydd found difficult to confront: he sympathised with their hard circumstances, which he shared. Since the shock of seeing the body of their captain committed to the deep, there had been a marked decline in the sense of unity and purpose; the loss of such a strong figure at the centre of their world allowed it to fly apart. Petty tyrannies spread unchecked, the humbler members of the power structure suffering the most. The lack of a respected figure to distribute praise or criticism meant that the traditional engine of cohesion was no longer there — and whatever else Fairfax was, he was not a leader.

A bare ten days or less and it would all be over — but Kydd's heart was heavy. It felt as though Artemis herself, sea-worn as she was, was the only one staying loyal and true to Powlett's memory. His hand fell, and under cover of the table he felt for the ship's side and secretly caressed its — her — timbers.

The officers gathering on the quarterdeck for the noon sight stood together. Fairfax lowered his sextant and inspected it. 'I make it thirty-two degrees nineteen minutes north, gentlemen. And that is a bare four hundred leagues from England.' There was a favourable stir. 'I will confess, a fine game pie is haunting me — perhaps in harness with a glass of decent claret not stinking of the bilge.' He handed over his sextant to be stowed below, and stretched, sniffing the steady trade winds. 'It will not be long now, we shall meet our families.'

Kydd, at his post, let the conversation slip past. He watched the helmsman catch a wind-flaw and ease the wheel a spoke or two.

Rowley added languidly, 'I do believe we shall be in time for the Season — the duchess means her daughter to be presented at court this year, and I have the liveliest recollection of Vauxhall gardens by torchlight.'