Artemis

still clinging to the shrouds, were the silhouettes of three men, ominously still. Others climbed up beside them. There were shouts, high-strung and chilling — Kydd knew with a sinking inevitability what they had found.

By the light of a lanthorn they crowded round the stiff, discoloured corpses as they were lowered down. Even the eyeballs had burst in the white heat, and the bodies had swollen to grotesque proportions. There was the sound of retching before canvas was brought to cover the indecency.

Dying rumbles followed the black mass as it fell away to leeward as rapidly as it had approached, leaving the stars to resume their calm display.

'No, me boy, we sank Africa astern three, five days ago,' said Merrydew. For him the heat was a trial, his corpulent figure sweaty, his movements slow and reluctant.

Kydd found it confusing. From his barely remembered geography lessons he recalled that Africa was a fat pear shape running north and south. If they were to round its southern tip to reach India, why were they heading away?

'Because we're makin' a westing, that's why,' the boatswain explained. To Kydd it seemed as nonsensical as ever. Patiently, Merrydew carried on. 'These latitudes, why, much further the wind gives up altogether, none to be had. Bad - we calls it the doldrums. We wants to avoid 'em, so we makes a slant over to t' other side o' the ocean afore it gets too bad. We then crosses the Line into the south half o' the world and slants back with an opposite wind — see?'

It was wearisome, life in the tropics aboard a frigate. The hardest thing was the intense humidity below decks, only partly relieved by wind scoops at the hatches. The next most difficult thing to bear was the food. Their molasses ran out, and the morning burgoo tasted of what it was, oatmeal months in the sack, malodorous and lacking flavour but for the insect droppings. Quashee did his best with the little store of conveniences, occasionally reaching heights of excellence. In the flying-fish belt he produced a legendary gazy pie, the little fish heads peeping up through the crust all around, and flavoured with hoarded garnishings.

The wind had been light and erratic for days now, a trying time when the hauling on lines had to be done under a near vertical sun beating down, which blasted back at them from the water.

One morning the wind died away entirely, the sea disturbed only by a long but slight swell. The heat was close to intolerable, despite the awnings, and the boatswain's red face swelled. The sails hung in folds from the yards, barely moving; the ship, with a sluggish roll, was without any kind of steerage way. Artemis drifted aimlessly in the mirror-like sea.

Nobody spoke, it cost too much effort. At three in the afternoon, a flaw of wind darkened the water. On the quarterdeck Powlett in his thin, threadbare shirt looked meaningfully at the figure of the Master.

It was what they had been waiting for. A wind - but from the south-east! They had already reached the winds of the south. The change in spirits aboard Artemis was remarkable. Although they had to wait until evening for the winds to reach a point where the sails began to fill and the rudder to bite, all talk was on the future.

'Got our slant - gonna be shakin' hands with them Kidderpore fillies in a month.'

'Hassiiming that we get in afore the monsoon shifts about.'

Happy chatter swelled, but Petit remained serious as he cradled his pot.

'Anythin' amiss, Elias, mate?' Stirk asked. His powerful body was, as usual, naked from the waist up, an expanse of damp mahogany muscle.

'Yes, mate,' Petit replied quietly.

The talking stopped and the group on the fo'c'sle looked over at him in the lanthorn light. 'How so, cuffin?' Stirk said softly.

'You knows, Toby, youse a man-o'-war's man an' unnerstands.' Stirk didn't reply, but a frown lined his face. 'Recollect, shipmate, we're in th' south now, and we ain't never had a visit from 'Is Majesty.'

Stirk's face eased fractionally. 'But o' course,' he murmured. When Kydd looked again he had disappeared.

It looked as though the wind would hold. The morning breeze had stayed and strengthened just a little, and with the lightest possible canvas spread abroad they were making progress. Powlett stood with his arms folded, squinting up at the undulating sails as they played with the breeze. The Master was next to him, willing on the winds.

Kydd was tricing up the after end of the quarterdeck awning and could hear the pleased conversations — whatever was in those secret orders, he guessed they must include every stricture for speed.

The boatswain came aft, and touched his hat. 'Sir,' he said, 'with m' duty, just found this paper near the quarterdeck nettings, thought you'd want t' sight it.'

Taking the paper, Powlett's face hardened. The ploy was often used to allow crew members to convey discontents anonymously aft. He read on, his expression grim. 'King Neptune? It's a nonsense, Mr Merrydew!' he roared. The boatswain stiffened. 'And a damnable impertinence!' Powlett snapped, and ripped the paper in two. The pieces fluttered to the deck. The boatswain's chin jutted belligerently: the customs of the Sea Service were not so easily to be put aside.

Turning to the Master, Powlett said loudly, 'Mr Prewse, pray tell us our position.'

Rubbing his chin, Prewse looked up at the sky. 'Well, sir, near enough . ..'

'Our position, sir!'

'Our longitude was thirty-two degree an' seventeen minutes west, noon yesterday.' 'Latitude, Mr Prewse?'

'An' nought degrees an' fifty-four minutes — north!'

Powlett whirled back on the boatswain. 'There you are. North. Do you propose, sir, that we enter King Neptune's realm early? That is to say, precipitate, like a damn-fool set o' canting lubbers who can't work a sea position to save their skins?'

The boatswain's face eased into a smile. 'Aye, sir, we'd best not set His Majesty at defiance!'

Kydd could hardly wait to relay the conversation to the mess, who were taking their victuals in the shade of the