Artemis(22)

'Ah, our gun captain, Tobias Stirk,' Kydd said, trying to regain centre stage. He led the way down the fore-hatch, resolutely keeping the men clear while she felt her way down to the main deck.

At the sight of the remaining twelve-pounders Cecilia paused. The heat of battle had boiled away the gun blacking to a patchy metallic graininess, and they looked what they were, lethal engines of war that had so recently taken an enemy warship and the life of her captain.

Scars of the desperate conflict were easy to find — long, splintered furrows in the pristine clean deck, daylight through smashed-in side timbers and suggestive dark stains, in more than one spot. An insistent rank odour of stale gunsmoke still pervaded the air along with the vinegar-sulphur mixture used to remove dried body parts.

'And, Tom, pray where . . .' She tailed off, her hand over her mouth, eyes opened wide.

Kydd showed her, not speaking.

She looked around wildly, the alien grimness of the scene visibly crowding in. 'Thomas, I - I - if you please, might we . . .'

Concerned, Kydd led her up to the open air again. Another colourful sunset promised, and he remembered Renzi's plans for a splendid meal. He addressed the adoring throng: 'Avast there, y' cod-eyed lubbers, we have business ashore now.' Beckoning to Renzi he announced, 'We dine as planned, Nicholas, and with company.'

Cecilia hesitated, then whispered up at him. Kydd smiled. 'We shall make a rendezvous for eight, but it seems my little sister wishes time with me first.' He turned and they went ashore, arm in arm.

Her lodgings were a tiny room in Southsea. She put down her hat and began to comb her hair before the hinged mirror. Kydd watched the familiar ritual fondly, the brush going swit-swit in regular strokes to her waist. He caught her eyes in the mirror and smiled. Quickly she averted hers and stared woodenly ahead, the brush continuing its monotonous rhythm. Taken aback Kydd wondered what he had said. Then he saw her eyes glisten. Stubbornly she stared into the mirror, the brush smoothing her hair in long strokes, and then the tears came. He held her as emotion shook her small frame, frightening him with its sudden onset. 'It wasn't so bad,

Cec,' he mouthed softly, 'it was over in an hour or two, I swear.'

She didn't answer and he held her away from him, searching her face. 'It's not that, is it?' he said, a cold dread beginning. 'It's Mother, isn't it?'

'No,' she choked.

'Papa?' he said.

'No, Tom, all are well,' she said, her voice muffled. She dried her eyes and turned on the stool to face him. 'I am a silly billy,' she croaked. 'Please forgive me, Thomas.' She tried a smile and Kydd laughed quietly.

'The twins have breeched, you know,' she said, in a stronger voice. 'And Mrs Mulder is to wed again in the autumn.' She hesitated. 'It's only been half a year — does it seem long to you, Thomas?'

Kydd thought of the incredible events and changes that he had endured. 'Er, yes, I suppose it does.'

She surveyed him at length. It was nothing short of magical, the change in him. The pale, earnest perruquier had metamorphosed into this strong, oaken-visaged sailor with the ready smile and lean body, fitting his colourful seaman's dress as though born to it.

'We didn't get your letter until March,' she said, omitting the details about the frantic worry that had preceded it, 'and that short one came in May.'

Kydd remembered the scrap of letter he had dashed off to his mother at sea in a battleship, forty miles off the French coast on the day before he was due to go ashore with the doomed landing party. Apparently another two letters were still on their way, but at least they had had word of his transfer.

'We didn't understand the bit about a frigate, but Lady Onslow was so sweet about it’ she said. Sir Richard was himself at sea at that very time, Rear Admiral of the White.

So they would have known about his transfer to Artemis, and therefore would have been horrified when news of her dreadful battle had become known.

Cecilia flopped on to the bed like the child she so recently had been, and looked up at him with shining eyes. 'Tell me, what's it like to be a sailor? Really, Tom, no gammon.'

Kydd felt a wave of affection break over him, her childish glee touching his heart. He told her of the sea, his lofty world of perils and adventure, skill and honour; the first sight of a sea-tossed dawn, the deep experience of feeling a deck heave, a comber bursting against the bow in a sheet of rainbow spray. He spoke of his friends — his shipmates, and their rough, simple gendeness.

She listened speechless, carried by his words but never gulled into underestimation by their simplicity. 'Oh, Tom, who would have thought it?'

Kydd had never experienced hero-worship from his sister, and reddened. 'When I spoke with the King, he remembered Guildford, Cec—'

'The King!' she squealed. 'Never! You never did!'