Artemis

waiting it out.

Wiping his forehead, Kydd watched Renzi staring out. 'Is this your East, Nicholas?' he asked ruefully.

Renzi grinned. Apparently the city lies more than a hundred miles beyond, up the Hooghly to its confluence with another river — that trip would set your Gosport boatman at a stand, I believe.' Scratching at his itching body, Renzi felt similarly cheated. Privately he was excited; he would see the native peacock, the golden domes of the Hindoo, and the naked holy man, but here?

Kydd's mind ran on more practical lines. 'So we are to warp upstream a hundred miles? I think not.'

'Then what are we here for?' Renzi said, perplexed. 'We have arrived and not arrived. This is vexatious in the extreme.'

On the quarterdeck the Captain and a midshipman stood next to a small amount of baggage. A sudden flurry from the waiting craft followed the boatswain's signal, and one was permitted to come alongside to pick up the officers.

'Now there's a thing,' Renzi said, looking intensely at the boat shoving off, its odd sail rising up the mast in rapid jerks.

A sudden pealing of boatswain's calls broke out. All haaaands! All the hands! Hands to store ship!'

Hatches to open right down to the hold, yardarm stay tackles, parbuckles - all the preparations for storing ship. What was going on? Why the hurry? Kydd could see no point in it. Ships usually took the opportunity after a long voyage to refit and repair and, of course, sailors relaxed ashore, yet here they were preparing to lay in stores as though their lives depended on it. What did the Captain's rapid departure mean? Parry's scowling face on the quarterdeck gave no sign and by the time the first store-ships arrived, Kydd was none the wiser.

These were flat barges fitted with long sweeps, creeping around the bend like water-beetles. Kydd watched as they approached, not at all looking forward to labouring work in the clammy closeness. The barges secured alongside, several abreast, and gangplanks were placed over them to the ship's side.

'Hey, you — Kydd!' It was Gant, the tall boatswain's mate.

'Didn't ya hear? Stand fast, topmen!' He grinned. 'You swabs are gonna fettle the barky ready for sea agen.'

Relieved, Kydd joined Renzi at the splicing, pointing and re-reeving of lines, which were jobs requiring real seamanship skills, and left the rest of Artemis's crew to the storing. It seemed that rumour had substance: they would put to sea before long. But it stood to reason that they would be given time ashore first.

Long lines of grey-brown lascar stevedores patiently padded over the gangplanks bringing their heavy loads aboard. Kydd looked at them curiously — lean, impossibly stringy, there was not the slightest bit of fat on them. Their eyes showed no interest, no recognisable humanity he could relate to; they simply plodded on in regular, economic movements.

Renzi went below to find some rope yarn, and Kydd lost interest in the stream of brown figures and pressed on with his work.

'If yer'd help us, friend, oi'd be roight grateful!' a hoarse voice said. Kydd looked up sharply, but there was no one, only the stream of lascars under the watchful eye of their serang. He looked around warily. If that was a joke, it was a pitiful attempt. He shrugged and continued at his marline spike and splice. 'Loike, we'em desperate.' The hoarse voice was close, very close. Kydd stood up angrily.

The boatswain arrived from below, puffing like a grampus. He stood at the rail, gathering his breath, and watched the line of native labourers. 'That slivey dog,' he said to Kydd. 'No, t'other one - mark his motions. Lazy fellow thinks to take it easy, an' he so well fed.'

The lascar indicated was indeed better nourished than the others. Instead of the sculpted angular ridges of hardness, there was a definite rounding of flesh; possibly the man was of superior caste.

'Hey, you, the serang? the boatswain shouted across at the overseer. 'Jowla, jowla — him!' he ordered, pointing at the offending individual.

The serang looked at him doubtfully, and raising his rattan gently rapped the man over his naked shoulders.

'Good Christ!' the boatswain said in astonishment. 'That wouldn't wake a sleepin' dog.' He snorted in disgust and stumped off below again.

Curiously Kydd watched the lascar trudge to the barge, lift a bale of dry goods awkwardly to his shoulders and turn to trace his steps over the gangplank and back aboard. As the man came over the bulwark he saw Kydd, and stumbled on a ring-bolt. The bale came down, bouncing along the deck, fetching up against the hatch coaming. Their eyes met - and Kydd saw real fear.

Kydd got to his feet. 'You savvy - no one hurtee you, this ship,' he said loudly. The man looked at him, then seized the bale and dragged it over.

'Thank Chroist!' the lascar said. 'Oi'm bleedin' well at t'end of me senses.'

Snatching up a rope's end, Kydd slashed him over the shoulders. 'Wha—' the lascar cried piteously.

'Shut up 'n' move!' Kydd hissed. Driving the man down the fore-companion to the gundeck, he pushed him past the canvas screening that concealed the sick quarters in the bow — he knew the three sick had been landed and the space was clear.

He spun the man round savagely. 'I've heard o' men doin' things t' run, but this is the first I heard someone wantin' so bad to get 'emselves aboard a King's ship!'

Crumpling to his knees, the man's voice caught in a sob. 'S' help me, frien', oi don' know how t' thank ye!' His brimming eyes looked up at Kydd. Taking a gulp, he continued, 'Fort William - 'tis a hell-hole loike yer worst dreams. Oi joined t' foller the colours an' a shillin' a day, not sweat in this black stink-pit.'

His face worked in a sudden paroxysm. 'This now's the cool o' the seasons — while yer wait fer the monsoon t' break, whoi, it's hotter 'n a griddle in hell — an' full uniform on parade or Sar'n't Askins'll 'ave yer!' His head dropped, and he stared hopelessly at the deck.