Kydd waited impatientl
y for Renzi. It was with the utmost pleasure that he told him of his meeting with a princess. His friend stared in frank amazement, and then rubbed his chin. 'That would probably have been Princess Sophia of Mecklenburg, I believe.' His face held every indication of envy, causing great satisfaction to Kydd. Then Renzi chuckled. 'You should keep an eye to windward, my dear fellow, for after the unfortunate passing of the Duke of Buccleuch's eldest, she is now an unattached maiden.' Kydd's smile broadened.
Boatswain's calls piped the still, and the men quickly fell into silence.
'His Majesty is — pleased,' Powlett said, seeming to have difficulty with the words. 'And he has — will be doing me the deepest honour, in conferring on me a knighthood.' He paused and looked down at his spotless court shoes. The ship erupted into cheers upon cheers.
He looked up, the hard face mobile. 'He has also been so kind as to present me with a purse. In it is a golden guinea for every man. His Majesty commands that with this his honest tars shall drink his health in a bumper.' The cheers were genuine and long.
Powlett's voice strengthened. 'In the matter of prize money . . .' he grinned, knowing the interest his words were creating '. . . I have to tell you that I have been led to understand that, subject to survey, the Frenchman will be bought into the Service!' A wave of muttering passed among the assembly. Prize money was a subject for intense satisfaction, not cheers. 'And as a result, and in view of our previous successes, it is my intention to make a preliminary award now, while your liberty tickets are being prepared.'
There was no stopping it. 'Three cheers an' a tiger fer Cap'n Powlett!' came a roar from the throng. The hoarse cheering went on and on, emotion from the battle finally released in a flood of affection for the tough Captain. 'Carry on!' Powlett said, and abru
ptly
turned on his heel and went below.
The golden orbs above the old dockyard gate seemed to draw the people like a magnet, all of them eager to catch a sight of their famed hearts of oak. Beside the marine sentry were soldiers, shoving back at the crowd. Kydd was astonished at the press of people, the riot of heaving, jostling humanity. 'What ship - what ship?' The cries were insistent.
An elderly seaman from another vessel answered nervously, indistinct in the clamour. With shouts of derision he was shouldered aside. In their turn Kydd and Renzi were challenged.
Artemis?
they replied, and were instantly swept off by the adoring crowd, faces on all sides babbling and shouting, alive with joy and drink. It seemed that their escort meant them to go no further than the Admiral Benbow close by the Hard.
There was a deafening uproar inside the taproom; red faces and blue smoke, sweating men and flashing-eyed femininity along with the sickly sweet smell of beer and wet sawdust.
'Artemis?
The shout was relayed around the room, and without delay a barmaid arrived to press tankards of foaming dark beer on the pair.
'To the sons o' Neptune 'oo are Old England's right true glory!' A generous roar followed, and tankards tilted. Kydd flushed with pleasure and raised his own.
Renzi noticed a calculating gleam in several female faces. Like birds of prey they detached from their perches and sidled across. The two sailors found themselves with a brace apiece, one on each arm. Renzi skilfully disengaged, but Kydd did not seem to be in any hurry to part.
'Gave 'em a right quiltin', did yer not, darlin'?' one said, her face flushed and hair peeping out from under her mob cap. She looked up at Kydd's face and said huskily, 'Wager you didn't hang back, me lovely, when the call ter duty went out.'
The other fingered his jacket. Defying the venomous looks of the first, she said, 'Why doesn't you an' me take a short cruise? I c'n show yez a time as'll keep yer warm for a year.' The first raised her leg gently and caressed Kydd's thigh. He coloured and pretended to enjoy his beer while she teased him towards her.
The tug-of-war continued until a thin-faced man in drab shore clothes appeared, and plucked at Kydd's sleeves. 'Ben Watkins — mizzen topsailman o' the
Duchess
as was,' he said, against the din. 'Heard tell it was a near-run thing, mates.'
The pulling and tugging subsided a little. 'Yes,' said Kydd shortly, but with a smile.
'Know somethin' about it, me bein' aboard when we took the - the
Majeste
that time,' Watkins said. Kydd looked at him. The man's voice lowered. 'See, mates, has ter bear up for Poverty Bay like, see, and I needs an outfit afore I ships out agen, and . . .'
Kydd felt inside his waistcoat and came out with a crown piece. Renzi grabbed his hand, but Kydd pressed it on the man. He looked at Renzi. 'I know,' he said, 'but I'm feelin' flush.'
Renzi realised that Kydd knew the man to be a fraud —there was no such thing as a 'mizzen topsailman' and he had never heard of a
Duchess
or of a
Majeste.
It was Kydd's simple generosity, and Renzi felt mean. 'Let's cruise, shipmate,' he said, and disengaged Kydd from the harpies' embraces. They shouldered through the noisy crush, seeing Petit being borne in, laughing and shouting.
Outside they paused in the bright sunlight. The water was alive with small craft, and a light frigate was making her way slowly past in the summer breeze, outward bound. The street was a kaleidoscope of colour.
As a pressed man in the old battleship
Duke William,
Kydd had never before had the opportunity to enjoy shoreside pleasures and he looked keenly
about him — the hucksters, gentl
emen and their ladies, sailors ashore and the vivid splash of red of an officer of a foot regiment. A cart trundled past, piled high with barrels. The sweat of the two horses was sharp in his nostrils; there was something about the purity of the sea air on a long voyage that made the scents of the shore so much more pungent.
Without a word they turned to the left, away from the dockyard, and made their way down the street. Sailors were shouting to each other and rolling down the way in fine style. Impecunious lieutenants heading for the dockyard from their cheap lodgings in Southsea crossed to the other side to avoid confrontation, but most passers-by grinned conspiratorially at their antics.
At the first corner Kydd and Renzi headed down the maze of smaller lanes to wander among the shops and hostelries. The aroma of mutton and onions hit them. 'My dear fellow—' began Renzi, but Kydd, with a quick grin, was already on his way into the chop house. They slid into place in a high-backed alcove and loudly demanded service.
'A brace of y'r shilling mutton pies an' not so damn near with y'r trimmings,' Kydd began.
'With pork chops on the side, if you please,' agreed Renzi.
'An' onions all over, with a jug o' y'r best stingo.'
'To be sure — and if your vi
ttle
s isn't of the first quality then we shall tack about and make another board.'
An hour later, replete, they eased out into the street again. The day was cheerful in every particular, the noises in the thoroughfare busy and jolly and the two friends wandered along, mellow and happy.
A tattoo parlour attracted Kydd, who suggested that a bright blue anchor on the back of each hand might be the very thing. 'Leave it till later,' Renzi advised quickly, and pulled him across to an agreeably decorated bow window where sailors' knick-knacks were on display.
The corpulent shopman sized them up.
'Artemis,
if my eyes do not deceive,' he burbled, fussing at his stock. 'Just the wery thing for a gentleman mariner,' he declared, sweeping forward a deep blue seaman's jacket. It was ornately finished in white piping and boasted a splendid superfluity of white buttons. 'Yes? Then you will without doubt need a waistcoat of the true sort — and 'ere I 'ave the harticle in question. I see you have already noticed the genuine pearl buttons and extra fine stitching.'
A short time later the pair emerged from the shop in fine attire, complete with the latest style of round hat with a dashing curled brim. Wiggling his toes in his smart long-quartered shoes, Kydd laughed with the sheer delight of being rigged out like a true-born son of the sea.
Their steps took them past the anachronistic yet charming white stone walls and turrets of the gun wharf. They turned right towards Broad Street, Kydd's rolling walk just a
little
exaggerated. In Old Portsmouth a sailor was a natural denizen among the crazy, rickety buildings of the narrow spit of Portsmouth Point.
At the lowering ramparts of King Henry's fortifications they turned right, past the Sally Port, where boat crews came and went from the great fleet at anchor at Spithead. The massive dark stone arch they passed was the last part of England that would be seen by the wretches condemned to transportation to Botany Bay. Kydd shuddered. The last time he had seen these old stones was from seaward, as a new-pressed landman on the foredeck of a line-of-battie ship.
In the narrowing confines it seemed as if the whole sea world had converged on the place. There were seamen in every rig imaginable and from every maritime nation, all brought together by the need to know something other than their harsh sea life.
'Avast there, yer scrovy swabs!' Stirk's familiar bellow broke in on Kydd's musings. He came striding across, his face creasing in delight. Behind him was Doggo, who pointedly lifted a
bottle
. Stirk stopped, and looked askance at Kydd. 'Well, bugger me days — flash as a rat with a gold tooth!' he said, still grinning. He nodded politely to Renzi, who had chosen more plainly.
'We gotta blow out our gaff, then — shall we lay course to board the Lamb 'n' Flag, me hearties?' The four passed along the street companionably, with the old houses and taverns pressing in on both sides to the end of the spit. There, a shingle beach offered a view into the harbour with
Artemis
alongside at the dockyard.
Kydd caught the powerful odour of seaweed, wet ropes and tar. But he hadn't long to reflect as they swung through the dark oak doors of the tavern. 'Hey, now! Toby Stirk! Warp yerself alongside, mate.' The roar came from a knot of men at a table to the left. A vast, red-faced seaman laughed and beckoned them over.
'Yair, well.' Stirk strode across and took the man's hand and pumped it for a long time. Remembering himself, he gestured at Kydd and Renzi. "S me shipmates, Ralf,
in Artemis
frigate we is, see.' Kydd had never seen Stirk so touched, and wondered what poignant tale was behind it.
The saloon was dusky but comfortable. In the light of the candlesticks Kydd's gaze took in the exotic mix of characters from half a hundred men-o'-war. Dusty artefacts from the seven seas adorned the walls; wicked lances from the South Seas, faded coconut monkeys from the coast of Africa and the mysterious gold on red lettering of the Orient.
The beer was good — very good, Kydd decided, and he sank another. He was happy to let the wizened sailmaker opposite make the running in the conversation. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Renzi puffing contentedly on his clay pipe, also allowing the talk to flow over him.
Stirk leant back. 'Sportsman's Hall in business?' he asked.
'Millers, is all,' he was told.
'That'll do, mates.'
The group moved to the brightly lit back room, where snarling terriers, restrained by thick leather straps, bayed loudly when the rat cages were brought in. The hubbub rose to a crescendo as bets were laid, Stirk and Doggo to the fore. Kydd held back, he had no real taste for the sport. With his head a-swim with ale he watched the terriers furiously flailing about, biting and worrying at the darting black rats.
Renzi caught Kydd's eye, his slow, regular puffing adding to the blue haze in the room. 'Shall we withdraw, do you think?'
Outside the fresh air discommoded Kydd. The excitement of the day had its inevitable effect and he staggered over to the low sea-wall, and heaved on to the rocks below. Renzi stood back until it was all over. As Kydd recovered, he went into the tavern and reappeared with a pan of water. Kydd accepted it gratefully. Dusting off his new rig, which had miraculously escaped being soiled, he stretched, then looked at Renzi. For no logical reason he felt resentment, not at Renzi but at the world, at things.
It grew and burned, and gradually took focus. 'I need - a woman,' he said thickly, glaring into space.
Renzi's expression did not change. 'Do you not feel a slattern's lues a hard price for the joy of the moment?'
Kydd's feelings erupted. 'D'ye think to preach at me? I do as I will!'
Looking at him dispassionately, Renzi knew there was no dissuading him. Kydd would have his way, and some raddled trull would know his youth and innocence.
'And, pray, what shall I tell Princess Sophia?' As soon as it was uttered, Renzi regretted the unworthy spite that made him say it, but it was too late. Kydd turned abru
ptly
and disappeared into the crowds.
Renzi stood still and watched him go. The coolness of his logic was slipping: he needed to rationalise recent events, to process them into tidy portions fit for inspection by a rational mind. He needed to get away. He trudged north, away from town, with no clear purpose in mind. Before reaching Landport gate, the landward entrance to Portsmouth, he heard the grinding of an ox-cart behind.
It was a farm worker in embroidered smock and shapeless hat driving two hand of oxen, returning after delivering his produce. Renzi stopped him. 'I'd be obliged were you to offer me passage.'
'Oi has no truck wi' deserters, tha knows,' the man said doubtfully.
'Do I sound like one, my friend?' Renzi said, offering silver. The man bit the half-crown piece and grinned widely, patting the bench beside him.
At the Landport arch they were stopped by a sentry. Renzi pulled out his ticket-of-leave, and waved it at the soldier. The sergeant ambled over and took a look. 'Ah — this 'ere is a Jack Tar orf the
Artemis,
lad. Come t' raise the dust after their 'orrible great battle.'
It was pleasant in the hot afternoon sun. The farmhand was not given to idle chat but had a steady grin of amusement on his homely face. They left Portsea Island and approached the foothills, joining the highway to Petersfield for a short while before taking the steep Southwick road to the summit of Portsdown Hill.
Bidding the man a courteous farewell, Renzi alighted there, and stretched out on the chalky grass. It was a superb view, high above the coastal plain, looking out over the town and dockyard for miles. The sunlit sea stretched out, the fleet at Spithead dark models against the sparkling flat sea.
He plucked idly at the grass and let his thoughts run free. He had been taken by surprise at the ferocity of his feelings as they boarded
Citoy
enne,
equally as blood mad as any of his shipmates. The hopeless bravery of the French Captain had impressed him greatly, and he had been touched to hear that Powlett had taken steps to remit a competence to his widow in recognition of this. The value of the coast signals lay in the secret of their recovery, and the world would never know of Maillot's gallant failure.
Now he also realised that for all his carefully erected barriers there was a personal vulnerability, an unguarded breach for which his own weakness was to blame. Kydd and he had endured and laughed together too many times for the friendship to be cast aside, and therefore he had to face the fact that through Kydd he was vulnerable. The thought of Kydd's clumsy attempts at a woman made him wince, as much at the memory of his own past concupiscence and wilfulness as anything, for in his own case there had been no excuse.
The sun beat down and he lay back, letting the tension seep from his bones. He tipped his hat over his eyes. An occasional insect buzz reached him over the gentle sough of the breeze. He lay there, drowsy and tranquil.
Faint shouts wafted up on the late-afternoon breeze, difficult to decipher. Behind closed eyes he tried to make sense of them. Then he heard the vexatious whinny of a horse and the unmistakable gritty progress of carriage wheels.
Renzi sat up. Bursting into view came a coach, the horses snorting and nodding after the long haul up. But this was no ordinary conveyance: it was fitted out for a cruise by a crew of enterprising sailors. With a flag hoisted at the main, a cargo of a stout keg aft and the inn-sign of the Lamb and Flag forward for a figurehead, she was manned by a cheering, drunken crew of seamen from
Artemis
bent on a roaratorious frolic.
The coach pulled up and painted doxies fanned out decorously to sink relieved to the grass. Renzi stood up in amazement. The keg was tapped again and again and pots waved assertively in the air as bets were laid on the race down the long hill and back into town. The browbeaten driver nervously checked the traces.
'Why, damn me eyes if it ain't Gennelman Jack hisself.' A quartermaster's mate of Renzi's slight acquaintance pointed at him in astonishment. Others joined to peer in his direction. Renzi gave a diffident wave and approached. Then from the other side, buttoning the flap on his trousers, came Kydd. He stopped dead.
For a moment Renzi stood nonplussed, then clapping his new hat over his breast, he loudly declaimed,
'While up the shrouds the sailor goes, or ventures to the yard The landman who no better knows, believes his lot is hard But Jack with smiles each danger meets . . . . . . and drinks his can of grog!'
Inwardly flinching at the populist doggerel he was nevertheless met with a storm of cheers. 'Welcome aboard th' barky, shipmate.' A dusty, well-used tankard was thrust at him and he joined the riotous crew, winking at Kydd as he passed to climb inside.
The coach jerked off down the road, drunken sailors aloft and alow. 'Whoay, mateys!' said one, left astern as he scrambled to reach his post aft on the postillion's seat. The coach rattled and shook in a cloud of dust as it plunged madly down the road, a fiddler scraping a jig alongside the terrified driver. Renzi smiled at the apprehensive women opposite, dust streaked over their caked rouge, their mob caps askew. 'Your acquaintance, ladies!' He bowed. Their eyes flashed white as they strove to make sense of it all, the rattling coach now violently swaying.
The most worldly wise looked at him in suspicion, his manner so utterly at odds with the open hilarity of the sailors outside. Eventually she appeared to make up her mind and, lifting her chin, stared out determinedly.
Cheers and whoops came from outside as they plunged past a startled populace, and an upside-down face suddenly popped into frame at the window. 'Me pot, Jack,' it said. Not understanding, Renzi hesitated.
The lady seized a tankard from the apparition and fumbled under the seat for a bottle, which she skilfully up-ended with only the minimum of slop. She handed it up and glared at Renzi. 'These 'ere sailor boys Y all 'ut stands 'tween us an' the Frogs, matey. You'd begrudge 'em their spree?' Hesitant smiles appeared on other faces — Jack Tar ashore was popular in this part of the world.
'Indeed no, madam,' he said, sincerely. He glanced out again and saw the town ramparts flash past, sentries scattering. Past houses and cheering taverns they flew. The sailors above kicked up a deafening hullabaloo as they neared their goal, the coach careering dangerously around every corner.
An excited roar arose, the wheels juddered under locked brakes — and they teetered to a stop, horses a-tremble and the driver with his head in his hands. The crew piled out, arguing loudly, but without a timepiece between them judgement as to records was academic. The keg was unlashed and the driver mollified with silver.
'Rare time!' said Renzi lightly to Kydd, who had jumped from the roof of the vehicle.
Kydd brushed himself down, delaying a response. Renzi saw that his eyes were bloodshot and he moved carefully. 'Yes,' Kydd said neutrally.
'Should you desire a roborant, it would be my pleasure to find you one,' Renzi said.