Artemis(90)

The stockade neatly enclosed the observatory and living huts on the grassy plateau, the bamboo palisade extending down to the sea-shore on each end. The stakes would deter all but the most determined assault, and once Artemis warped out and moored in the sheltered waters of this leeward side of the island, the seaward approach would be secured.

The canoes that brought the foodstuffs were quite different from the lean war-canoes. Large catamarans with a central platform and matting sail, they extended over the bright sea from the larger island over the horizon, piled high with tropical harvest. They also brought cargo of quite a different kind.

'Sir — sir!' called Fairfax, breathless with anxiety and his run from the beach. 'Sir, there are women in those canoes -quantities of women!' The women, flowers in their hair and chattering excitedly in their lilting liquid-vowelled tongue, steered their craft in through the rippling eastward entrance to the lagoon and glided in to the far beach.

The men at work on the bulking hull stopped and watched the procession pass them in astonishment. A buzz of talk began, interspersed with ribald calls, which were returned in kind by the native girls, who waved back happily. The talk swelled to jollity then bawdiness.

'Haaands to muster by divisions!' The boatswain's calls shrieked discordantly, sending a cloud of small shrikes flying up from the thick vegetation.

On the sinuous length of beach in the lee of the grounded vessel the ship's company mustered under their respective officers, sailors in every sort of clothing in deference to the balmy warmth, most barefoot but all with some form of headgear against the strong sun. The officers were in the bare minimum of uniform and faded cocked hats, Rowley in shirt-sleeves and breeches, lace at his cuff and breast, while Parry's serviceable loose shirt was unbuttoned to the stomach.

Powlett strode up. Despite the tropic warmth he wore his blue coat and laced cocked hat, sword at his side.

'Still!' The boatswain's calls pealed a single blast, and the talking died away.

For long seconds Powlett held them with his eyes, the undercurrent of exhilaration among the men ebbing under his ferocious glare. 'While Artemis is heaved down, should an enemy sail find us here, we are dead men! I will not have us so for a single minute longer than necessary. There will be no rest for any officer or man until we are there,' he gestured seawards, 'at anchor, stores aboard and ready to fight!’ Pausing for emphasis he continued, in forceful tones, 'And if any man should think to straggle away, for any reason, I promise you most faithfully, I will take it to be desertion in the face of the enemy.'

The men glanced at each other. There was sense in what Powlett was saying. There were some unknown weeks left until the scientists had performed whatever it was they were doing. The women could wait.

'Master-at-Arms!' The nuggety figure stepped forward reluctantly. He doffed his hat, an incongruous move for he wore no shirt, and with his fair colouring his body had reddened uncomfortably. Powlett's eyes narrowed and his breath hissed between his teeth. 'Damn you, sir, get a shirt on!' he snapped, before ordering more loudly, 'The purser and his steward only to deal with the women. No savage this side of the stockade under any circumstances. Post your guard inside, and any man who disobeys my orders I want to see before me instantly.'

Despite their best efforts, nightfall saw Artemis still shore-bound; the big hawsers around her hull to tilt her over were gone, as were all but anchors laid out from the bows and stern. However, they would have to wait until the first light of day before they could safely ease the frigate once more into her element.

In the living huts the women's low calls reached clear and soft on the night air. They had not returned in their canoes and clearly expected some response from the strangers. Kydd lay back in his hammock and listened: the warmth of the evening, the violet clarity of the dusk, the night scents of orchids, all conspired against his peace of mind. He could see the blaze of stars peeping through chinks in the matting roof, and he knew that soon a full tropic moon would set the lagoon a-sparkle with silver behind the immense inky shadow of the ship. One of the women began a soft song — cool, dreamy, infinitely beguiling. He tossed fretfully.

A cross voice came from the gloom in the hut. 'Fer Cbrissakes!’

'Shut yer face, Lofty,' a second voice grumbled.

'An' all of yez, clap a stopper on it’ snarled another. The voices mumbled and stopped, but sounds of restlessness continued, the absence of deep, regular breathing betraying sleeplessness.

'Be buggered!' a voice said decisively. 'I've a mind ter do somethin' about it.' A dark shape detached from a hammock and crouched down.

'Don' do it, Toby,' another voice urged. 'Blackjack means it, mate.'