Artemis

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, gentlemen 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 vittles 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?'