Seaflower

indeed, and we shall—' He broke off. Above the comfortable patter of shipboard noises a faint thud had sounded, as of a light-calibre cannon in the distance. Activity ceased on the lower deck as men strained to hear. Another thud. Eyes met - random gunfire in a naval anchorage was unusual to the point of incredible. Some got to their feet, faces hardening. A move to the hatchway turned into a rush as a third shot was heard.

On deck all attention was on the harbour entrance. Officers on the quarterdeck had telescopes trained and tense chatter spread. Some men leaped for the foreshrouds to get a better view.

It was a naval cutter under a full press of sail, flying through the narrow entrance of the harbour, an enormous ensign streaming and some sort of signal on both shrouds. A white puff appeared on her fo'c'sle, the thump arriving seconds later.

'Despatches - she's a packet boat,' Stirk growled. 'An' goin' rapful - she's got some noos fer us, mates!' he said, with unnecessary emphasis.

The cutter raced along, and made a neat tack about opposite the signal tower. Backing her single topsail she subsided to a stop and hove to, her boat launched almost immediately. It passed close to the receiving ship, the single officer ignoring the shouted pleas for news echoing over the water. It made the landing place, and the officer hurried up the stone stairs. He disappeared among the buildings while the boat shoved off again, to lie off.

It was galling to know that something of deep importance was taking place within a stone's throw, and speculation flew about, opinions ranging wildly from the French at sea on their way to invade to the death of the sovereign.

They had not long to wait. A deeper-throated great gun, probably from the fort more inland, sullenly boomed out and a line of soldiers emerged, trotting in a single line along the waterfront On deck the excited chatter died away. Another gun boomed, but then Renzi cocked his head. 'The church bells are ringing. It seems we must celebrate a victory!'

More bells joined in, and more. From the halliards of the signal tower burst hoists of flags, and the water became alive with craft furiously criss-crossing the harbour. In exasperation men hung from the rigging, watching the growing excitement ashore. A receiving ship's main purpose was as a floating barracks for the victims of the press-gang before they were sent out to their ship, and had well-tested means of keeping men aboard; they would have to contain their frustration for now.

Happily, it soon became clear that boats were putting off to spread the news. A pinnace sped towards them, a midshipman standing perilously in the sternsheets waving madly. Indistinct shouting tantalised, but soon it was close enough for the shrill words of the excited youngster to come through: it was a great victory by Admiral Howe, out in the stormy seas of the Atlantic not three days before. In a rush the boat was alongside and the midshipman flew up the side, pelting aft to the quarterdeck to report.

The seamen lost no time in hanging over the side and getting their story from the boat's crew, the tale disjointed and wild but plain in its essentials. Admiral Howe had been at sea for weeks, knowing that a desperately needed convoy of grain was coming from America to relieve revolution-racked France, heavily guarded, of course. The two fleets met at sea and a running battle over three days had culminated in a titanic clash on 1 June and a crushing defeat for the French.

Willing hands hauled on lines of flags as the receiving ship dressed overall, her token four-pounders banging out to add to the bedlam all around, a delirious show from a nation at the news of a great victory in a major Fleet action at sea.

Ashore, the dockyard and the town were filling with people, their shouts carrying faintly to the frustrated men who knew full well what was developing in the taverns and pot-houses of the town.

But to their unspeakable mortification, the Artemis survivors were not allowed to join in the merry-making — and it was so easy to remember their own wild reception after their victory in a sea duel with a French frigate, the first fight among equals of the war, and they wanted to relive the euphoria. There was nothing to do but stare longingly at the shore and endure, a hard and bitter thing for men who had suffered as they.

The court-martial flag remained at the masthead, but Kydd was not called. Neither was he the next day, and when the flag was hauled down on the third day he shrugged and made ready to leave for home.

It was also the day that Earl Howe and his victorious fleet arrived at Spithead. The town erupted for the second time, and enviously the Artemis seamen watched as the liberty boats swarmed ashore at Portsmouth Point. Incredibly, they were still being kept aboard.