Artemis

Pinto spoke up for the first time. 'Padrino’ he said to Petit, 'what you do, when you sail to the Indee?'

Petit toyed with his pot. 'Renzi's right, o' course. Three, four year back it was, if yer recollects, we went ter Batavia to pick up Bligh 'n' his crew 'oo stayed with 'im in the Bounty launch. Took 'em back to Portsmouth.' Kydd remembered reading about it in the news; it had a different meaning now.

Petit had their attention and carried on with his yarn. 'Ill-tempered sod, was Bligh — noo his rights as a grunter, did he, 'n' him only a jumped-up master's mate. Useta strut up 'n' down the quarterdeck, never goin' forrard, ever.'

There was a stirring around the table. Opinions in the Navy were divided between admiration for Bligh's undoubted feat of seamanship - four thousand miles in an open boat without losing a man - and contempt for his equally undoubted senseless brutality to his men. 'Long v'yage, yair, but don't recollect we 'ad troubles findin' things to do,' he ruminated.

'Well, what did y' do in th' dog-watches each night?' prompted Kydd.

'Usual kinda things. Yarns, dice, fancy work with th' rope. Oh, yeah, makin' things!' He fumbled and pulled out his seaman's knife. 'Like this I done.' The handle was beautifully carved, the hand-filling curve of a leaping dolphin in ebony.

'N' others, they like ter scrimshander - carvin' whale's teeth an' that.'

Kydd thought of Wong and the intricate nude Oriental females he always fashioned. 'Yeah, I seen that.'

Petit scratched his head. 'Bout all I c'n say — you makes yer own amusements, mates.'

It made Kydd thoughtful, and he broached the subject with Renzi later.

'Food for the intellect, dear fellow. Turn time to account. He who kills time is a murderer.' Renzi had no doubt about it. Kydd guessed that soon a significant amount of space in their shared sea-chest would be taken up with books.

There was no way of avoiding it — the ship was under sailing orders and could sail imminently: Kydd had to write a final letter to Cecilia. Reluctantly he found his portable writing kit and set it up.

He tested the sharpness of the quill nib with his thumb, and settled his paper and ink once again. The noise of the mess deck around him was unsettling, the building excitement making it difficult to concentrate — and, of course, he was no taut hand with words, it was quite outside his character.

'Artemis, at anchor, Spithead,' he began.

He sucked at the tip of the quill until it began to look bedraggled and sorry, and he glanced around despairingly. The lanthorn set on the table next to him guttered and radiated a hot candle smell.

'The 15^th day of August, 1793. Weather: Cool westerlies, slight chop.' This was better, it was beginning to flow.

'Dear Sister' — or should that be 'Cecilia'? He had never written to her before in his life.

'I trust I leave you, as our mother and father, in good health.' Clever one that - women always set great store by such things.

'We sail for India now. Nicholas says it will be 13,000 miles. We have been taking in stores. It is hard work, and you would stare at the strange kinds.'

His mind reviewed the last sentence. Some were passing strange — a mysterious canvas mailbag with a heavy padlock through the cringles at its mouth and guarded by sour-faced redcoats; the heavy rectangular bundles requiring special dry storage that turned out to be scores of newspapers; the chickens and goats that would be looked after at sea by the peculiar Jemmy Ducks and slaughtered in turn - she obviously wouldn't be interested in these arid details.

'We will be at sea for many months or a year, or more than a year. Today is dry and cool. Elias Petit says that around the Cape will set us at hazard this time of the year. Daemon frigate was there lost with all hands in the year '86.' It was difficult to think of anything else that might interest her, and when Renzi arrived, he looked up with relief. 'Nicholas! What should I write to my sister? Here is my paper, and it's not yet half written.'

Renzi looked over his shoulder, then sat opposite, quite blank-faced. 'Do you understand, Thomas, that the ladies are on quite another tack to us in the matter of communications?' he explained. 'They are illogical, flighty and strangely interested in the merest details, you know.'

Kydd had never considered the matter before.

Renzi waited, and thought of Cecilia, the intelligent, darting dark eyes, the sturdy practicality giving backbone to the appealing childish warmth of her femininity. Unaccountably he felt a pang. 'Would you be offended were I to offer my suggestions?' he found himself saying.

'O' course not, Nicholas! Give us a broadside of 'em, I beg.'

'Very well.' Cecilia was practical, but she would want to know personal details. 'Are you ready?'

''It is the eve of great adventures - to the fabled court of the Great Moghul, the sacred groves of Calicut - yet must I look to the needs of the voyage! Therefore, dear sister, I have . . .'' Those eyes, softening under his gaze. She would want to know of feelings; fears, hopes . . . ''At the signal on the morrow we spread our sails and disappear from mortal ken into the Great Unknown, the vasty deep. I cannot but feel a quickening of the spirit as I contemplate the asininity of man's claims to dominion, when he but rides above the . . .''

'Wait! This pen is scratchy. Do ye think she'll suspect that it's not me, I mean, writin' like this?'

'Of course she will not, brother. '. . . if you give thought to me, dear Cecilia, be certain that my image is foremost in your mind when . . .'' It would be months before there would be chance of a mail passage back to England in one of the stately East Indiamans; this letter would have to last.

'Haaaands to unmoor ship!'

The anchorage was the same, the view of the low, dark green coast and white slashed Downs was the same, but the feeling was definitely different.