Renzi's disquiet turned to unease. This was neither humane nor sensible treatment for shipwrecked souls, and did not make sense. The loss of
A boatswain's mate appeared at the hatchway and pealed a call. ‘Artemis hands! Haaaaands to muster! Aaaaaall the Artemis haaaands — muster in th' waist with yer dunnage!'
'Well, bugger me days!' said Stirk. 'An' the bastards 'ave remembered we're 'ere!' There was a scramble for their pitifully few possessions, Kydd's own fitting into one small bundle. With lifting heart he tugged on his hat, and hastened on deck into the evening sun. Hooked on below was a big launch, manned by a subdued set of seamen he did not recognise. An older-looking lieutenant was standing at the tiller, his mouth a thin line.
'Hey-ho, mates — and it's bad luck t' any who ain't chirpin' merry in one hour!' said one Artemis, his eyes shining.
'Got th' gormy ruddles sittin' in this hooker!' said another, hefting his bag, 'an' the only thing'll cure it 's me comin' alongside some willin' piece who'll show a sailor the way home!'
Kydd grinned, and after their names were marked off in the muster book, he went down with the others into the boat, Renzi close behind. They settled all along the centre, between the rowers. But there was no answer to their jocular barbs. The crew of the launch were mute and serious and they kept their eyes in the boat facing aft. Slowly the happy chatter of the Artemis hands died away under a sense of apprehension. The boat shoved off, the men at the oars pulling slowly but economically, as if they had a long stretch ahead.
Kydd looked at Renzi in appeal — he only shook his head. Suddenly a cutter shot out from the other side of the ship. With a shock Kydd saw that it carried a party of marines, complete with muskets and accoutrements. It curved toward them and fell in close astern, the officer not glancing at it as the launch shaped course to parallel the shore.
'The poxy shabs!' roared Stirk in disbelief. 'We're bein' turned over!' He stood up and grasped the gunwale.
'Try it, 'n' you'll get a ball in the guts!' growled the lieutenant. Stirk stood rigid as a storm of protest broke around him. It was not uncommon for ships returning from a distant commission for docking and refit to transfer their company bodily to another ship, without the chance of liberty ashore. But survivors of a shipwreck?
'Silence!' bellowed the officer. 'You're under discipline, you damned rascals, and I'll see the backbone of any who doesn't agree!'
The boat, borne away at speed by an ebbing tide through the harbour entrance, passed scenes and sounds of merriment ashore as the seamen of the victorious Fleet gave vent to their feelings. In the launch there was a grim silence, just the creak of oars in their rowlocks and a regular, hypnotic splash as they dipped into the sea.
Kydd felt bleakness take hold. A lump grew in his throat as his eyes took in the land. So far! And so much had happened on the voyage! His sorrow left no room for rage.
Altering to starboard after making the open sea, the boat made for the gaunt shapes in the dusky light of men-o'-war at anchor at Spithead, but not before they had passed close to the raucous revellers in the rickety old buildings of Portsmouth Point, close enough to hear individual cheers and oaths.
Kydd's eyes fixed on the shore. Renzi tapped him on the shoulder and he looked around to see down
the massive length of a 74-gun ship-of-the-line. They passed around the stern, with its old-fashioned open gallery, and Kydd looked up. In faded gold there was a big heraldic ribbon. The name
Bitterness welled up and choked him. Kydd gripped a rope at the edge of the foredeck and stared back at his homeland, unwilling to let the fast-receding land disappear. The seas lengthened as Trajan met the first Atlantic rollers coming up the Channel, sending men staggering. The two-decker was soon clawing to windward as close as she would lie, two other vessels astern and one ahead. The land finally turned to a misty anonymity and vanished, and the lump in Kydd's throat deepened.
'I
