Artemis

'In our direction, and without a load,' Renzi replied.

Without discussion, they dropped their bundles and waited for the wagon to approach. The horses toiled listlessly up the hill, and it became clear that there were objects in the body of the wagon.

'That's a lobsterback!' Kydd burst out. As the wagon approached they saw that the marine was a guard for the press-gang, the objects in the wagon his luckless catch.

Kydd laughed. 'If we don't leg it smartly, we could fin' ourselves pressed.'

Renzi smiled wryly. They were in no danger — real deserters would be in disguise and heading away from the seaports.

They waved down the wagon. The marine was dusty and bored, and saw no reason why they should not share a ride to Portsmouth. They clambered gratefully into the wagon with their bundles, and found themselves a place among the dozen or so victims of the press, who were handcuffed to the outside rail.

There were two sailors also, members of the gang, comfortably wedged at the forward end, enjoying a bottle. They looked up in surprise as Kydd and Renzi boarded. 'Yo ho, shipmates, what cheer,' the older one said.

'Artemis? Kydd said briefly, swelling with pride.

The sailors sat up. 'No flam! Then ye'll need to clap on more sail, mates, should yer wanna be aboard afore she sails.'

'What?'

'She's sailin', mate — another of yer vy'ges with a bag o' gold fer yez all at the end,' the younger said enviously.

So her battle damage had been made good already; there must have been some ruffled feathers in the staid world of the dockyards. But would they make it in time?

'She out o' dock yet?' Kydd asked.

'Dunno — we're Diadems at Spithead, mate, how would we know?' The older man was short with them. Diadem was an old-fashioned and slow sixty-four-gun third rate, which could neither catch a frigate nor really keep the line of battle.

The bottle was passed over as the wagon ground off, and as Kydd took a pull at the liquor he noticed one or two resentful looks from the prisoners, who lolled pitifully, their hands clinking the iron cuffs that held them.

There was one young man of an age with himself, sitting miserably with his head back. He stared up into the summer sky with an expression that spoke of homesickness, fear and helplessness. Kydd's own dolorous journey as a pressed man was only a little more than six months before and so much had happened since — adventures that would have seemed terrifying if he had known of them beforehand.

He flashed a comradely grin at the lad, who turned away in his misery, not wishing to talk. Kydd shrugged. There was an unbridgeable distance between them. He raised his bottle. The raw gin was heady but did nothing for his thirst. He wiped his mouth and passed it to Renzi.

It was a serious matter if they missed Artemis. They would have no option but to ship out in another unknown vessel, which as volunteers they would have the privilege of choosing. But Kydd had been much looking forward to meeting his old shipmates again, and the frigate was of the first order as a fighting ship — lucky, too.

The wagon swayed on, the wheels grinding monotonously as the hours passed, the heat tedious to bear without any shade. Finally they passed on to Portsea Island and began the final stretch to Portsmouth town. The gaiety and feverish celebrations of before were now well over, replaced by a purposeful wartime hurry.

The downcast pressed men stirred when they realised their journey was concluding, and at the sight of the grim lines of ships at anchor a youngster began to whimper and the older ones turned grave.

Kydd's heart leapt, however, as his gaze took in the scene. His nostrils caught the fresh sea air breezing in, and he eagerly observed the ships at anchor - the bulk of Queen Charlotte, Admiral Howe's flagship; the Royal Sovereign of equal ifize; and he thought he recognised old Duke William further down the line.

The wagon stopped at the Sally Port - the prisoners would wait shackled until the boats came for them, but they were free to bid farewell and tramp up the well-remembered road across to the dockyard.

The dock and the berth alongside were empty. There was no sign of Artemis, and Kydd's heart sank. They were too late. Depressed, they hunkered down on the cobblestones as they thought about what to do. It was a keen loss, which Kydd perceived came from a sense of homelessness, when hearth and home now sheltered someone else.

Renzi first spotted her. End on, she was over at the other side of the harbour, at Weevil Lake off the Royal Clarence Victualling Yard, taking in casks of salt beef and ship's biscuit. But how were they to get out to her?

Almost immediately they saw distantly a boat put off from the stern of Artemis. It slowly crossed the bright water towards their dockyard jetty, resolving into the Captain's barge.

'No way, Jack,' the coxswain of the barge replied to their entreaties. 'Cap'n's orders,' he said impatiently. 'We 'as a full crew, 'n' don't need no more volunteers.' He unshipped the rudder and heaved it into the boat, and came up to where they were standing. 'Yer knows she's goin' foreign?' he said, looking at them knowingly. The information would deter some. At the expression on their faces, the man softened. 'Look, mates, tell yez now - barky closed books on 'er ship's company sennight since, ain't taken a soul after. Sorry.'

They didn't speak, so the coxswain shrugged and left them to it.

Lifting his sea-bag Kydd muttered, 'We'll need t' find a ship, Nicholas, or we're like t' starve.'

Renzi nodded agreement, and got slowly to his feet.

'Oars!' bellowed the coxswain. In the boat the men tossed their oars to the vertical and assumed a reverential dignity. 'Bugger off,' he whispered harshly.

With his head bowed in concentration, Captain Powlett strode forcefully down to the jetty. A grey-haired lieutenant talked to him urgently until they reached the boat. The coxswain saluted, and took the Captain's plain