Artemis(26)

Reason was not enough in this situation: soon Kydd and he would part. He himself would be back at sea in his self-imposed exile, but without his friend, a true and understanding companion in a perilous and exciting following.

He passed by the open door of the Red Lion at the top of the high street. The dark interior was warm, odoriferous and in a convivial hubbub. On impulse he entered and found an empty high-backed cubicle. Perhaps he could loosen his mind with ale and think of something he could do for Kydd before he left. The pot-boy arrived, looking curiously at his featureless black long clothes — it was seldom that the quality patronised this pothouse.

Renzi ordered a Friary ale, the local dark bitter brewed here since the Middle Ages. He sipped slowly, staring into space as once more he went over the available alternatives. They were pitifully few. His own means were slender; returning to his family to claim his own was out of the question, and his recent acquaintances did not in any wise include men of substance. But this was not a matter of a few guineas loan, this was an entire family's future. Reluctantly, he conceded that Kydd's act was the only one that had any practical consequence for his family, and it was probably kinder to take his leave quietly - and for ever, knowing that their lives had now irrevocably diverged.

Renzi became aware that someone was standing next to him. He looked up. At first he could not place the man, then remembered the assistant with the wooden leg in the bookshop. The man's hard face rearranged itself into an ingratiating smile. His worn but serviceable tricorne hat was in his hands. 'I begs yer pardon, sir,' he said. Kydd had been right, Renzi thought, this was a seaman; by his bearing probably a petty officer — a quarter-gunner, quartermaster's mate or any one of the band of men rightly termed the backbone of the Navy. 'Perrott, Jabez Perrott, if'n yer pleases. If I c'n have a few words, like.'

Renzi felt a surge of irritation. He had no coins to spare — Kydd would get all he had when he left. He did not invite the man to sit, and stared back.

Perrott stood resolute and pressed on. 'Yer in the Sea Service.'

It was a bald statement, and surprised Renzi. He knew he did not have the born-to-it strength and character of a seaman that Kydd so obviously had, but for some reason he motioned Perrott to sit opposite. 'What can I do for you?'

The man's hat appeared on the table, the strong hands twisting it, an unaccountably poignant sight for Renzi. What encounter far out at sea had ended for him with his leg under the surgeon's blade, screaming pain and a severed limb tossed bloodily into the tub?

'If yer could see yer way clear, sir . . .' Perrott was clearly unused to pleading.

Renzi waited.

'Like, if yez has need of a sea-cook, sir, aboard yer barky, well, I'm a-sayin' as how I'm yer man . . .'

Perrott evidently thought he was an officer, a captain. Irony twisted at Renzi's lips.

'Or mebbe cook's mate, even,' Perrott added, seeing the expression, 'an' get an actin' warrant, like.'

It was certainly the practice to employ maimed seamen as cooks, but this required an Admiralty warrant of appointment. No captain, certainly no officer, could simply take on a man without this necessary document. 'You mistake me, I am no naval officer,' Renzi said, his pained amusement not shared by Perrott.

'Since swallerin' the anchor, sir, it's been hard - cruel hard. Had t' bear up fer Poverty Bay, like.'

Renzi could only guess the difficulties to be faced by a proud, self-sufficient seaman cast ashore in a cold and indifferent world. The man was either too proud or without the interest to secure a place at Greenwich Hospital, the home for crippled seamen without family.

'I say again, I am not a naval officer, and even if I were, without an Admiralty warrant you may never ship aboard as sea-cook,' Renzi told him.

Perrott allowed a glimmer of a smile to surface at Renzi's unwitting use of Navy terms. 'Aye, sir, if you sez, youse ain't a naval officer.' He allowed a moment's pause and continued, 'But if yer could have a word with the pusser, an' tell 'im that I'd divvy on th' slush . . .'

Perrott was clutching at straws if he imagined that a promise to the purser to share in his perquisites as cook would get him a berth. 'What are you doing in Guildford?' Renzi asked. The quiet rural town was far from the sea, in deep farming country.

'Mem'ries,' said Perrott immediately, his face blank.

Renzi felt a pang of sympathy — Perrott obviously meant memories of the sea and ships, where he had been a prime seaman, a whole man with pride and confidence, not a hobbling cripple with a bleak future, dependent on charity. There would be no reminders in Guildford. Despising himself, Renzi got to his feet to bring the conversation to an end.

Perrott rose also, his wooden limb clattering against the bench. 'C'n I call on yer for y'r decision?' His eyes were opaque, the body tense.