'You, sir — yes, you!' It was Evelyn, beckoning to him while he remained bent at an eyepiece. Kydd came obediently, knowing that Evelyn was not given to idle whims. 'Be so good as to advise me, Mr Mariner. My glass has a propensity to tremble and sway in this rather forthright breeze. It makes a ruination of my figures.' He waved at the slender brass length of his instrument up on its wooden platform.
Kydd saw how the long optical piece was being affected by its length. 'I believe y' have here a mizzen gaff right enough, yet wanting its rigging.' He pursed his lips. 'I'll return with the necessaries.' Evelyn nodded, bemused at the mysterious metaphor.
Returning with a hank of spun-yarn, Kydd capably set up a pair of vangs each side of the instrument leading to its outer end from the stout support posts of the platform. He contrived a deadeye on one side, which allowed him to tighten the 'rigging' to a harp-like tautness. 'There,' he said, with satisfaction. 'Do y' take a look through y' optics now.'
Evelyn bent and took the eyepiece again. 'Ah! The very wonder of the age — here we have a rock-like stillness.' He relinquished the instrument and stepped down. 'My thanks, Mr Mariner.' Noticing Kydd's interest he added, 'We have in these papers an infinitely precious aggregation of data, which when matched with simultaneous observations in Greenwich will settle once and for all the precessional paradox.'
Nodding wisely, Kydd noticed the care that Evelyn took in replacing the papers in a polished wooden box. No doubt this contained a final product of why the frigate had travelled so far to this remote region.
'I have not seen your friend, er . . .'
'Nicholas Renzi.'
'Just so. Presumably he is distracted in making sport with the ladies of these islands.'
Kydd tried to suppress a smile. 'He is not. He has a hankerin' after the theories of Mr Rousseau, an' believes that we corrupt the savage by our civilisation.'
Evelyn's eyebrows rose. 'Rousseau? You have debated him?' He looked out over the glittering blue ocean and continued, 'For myself, I cannot bear the bigot or his loose thinking, but in this instance I am inclined to believe he is right, we are a plague on these people. The sooner we are sailed the better I shall like it.' He swung up to the platform again. 'Pray excuse, I must return to my work.' Kydd knew he was dismissed from Evelyn's universe.
Parry was not the officer to accept weak excuses. Absence from place of duty was a dereliction that could not and would not be forgiven. The offender would get no sympathy from the rest of the duty watch either, for they had probably themselves been torn from willing arms to report. Kydd fretted for Renzi, who had probably wandered off in search of some marvel of nature. Possibly he had found an old native philosopher and was carrying on a deep conversation by signs. Now he was on report to the Captain who would stop his liberty or worse.
Duty ashore was not arduous. There were stands of muskets to hand, and the stockade to patrol, but against whom it was not clear. Companionable tasks included assisting the cook to prepare the evening meal, repairing the hut matting and the like. Less companionable was the sentry-go, which involved porting a heavy musket in solitude along the length of the stockade.
Supper was served out, and Kydd considered whether he should save some of his ration for Renzi. Darkness stole in, conversations became desultory and those free to do so retired to the living huts. As the moon rose, huge and magnificent, over the craggy line of the peak escarpment, it charged every object with a deep silver radiance and created myriad mysterious shadows.
Back on sentry-go, Kydd paced slowly along the stockade, peering over the top across the grassy slopes, which disappeared into shadow at the woodland edge. Nothing moved; the low soughing of the night breeze and creaks from the timbers of the stockade were all that fell on his senses. He shifted the musket over his shoulder and padded on.
'Hsssst!' It was the beach sentry, hurrying up the path. He gesticulated sharply. Kydd hurried down to the man, who was in grave breach of discipline by leaving his post. 'Come down to th' beach,' the man whispered urgently.
Kydd knew that there must be good reason he should go, but if he was caught — he looked back along the line of the stockade. The other sentinels were indistinct dark blobs in its shadow. He turned and plunged down the slope. At the point where the stockade met the sea he saw two figures standing together in the moonlight, which lay still and liquid on the pale beach.
'Well met, my friend.' It was Renzi. His voice sounded gentle and noble but Kydd approached in apprehension for what he might find. Renzi was in native dress, a waist-length skirt and headdress of woven flowers. Next to him was a native woman dressed similarly and looking at Kydd with a palpable tension.
'Tohe-umu,' said Renzi, introducing her. 'She will be my wife when I settle here after you have gone.'