Artemis - Kydd 02 (8 page)

* * *

Renzi waited outside the Queen, concerned at Kydd's lateness. When he saw the two come into sight he hailed briskly. Kydd did not respo
nd at first, then he said quietl
y, 'Nicholas, come walk with me a spell, I have — some news.'

Chapter 4

K
ydd slumped back in the coach as it bucketed northward along the London Road. Next to him Cecilia held a small book as though reading, wise enough to leave him to his thoughts. The initial sharp pain had dulled. He knew that Renzi, with his fine logic and learning, would have a philosophy to suit, but in the last few minutes they had spent together, dividing the contents of the sea-chest they shared, it did not seem to be the thing to talk about. It had seemed so casual, the farewell, so matter-of-fact. They had stood in the 'tween decks; there had been a reluctant shaking of hands, a banal comment or two, and then he had turned his back on the only true, deep friend he had ever had.

There would be no problem about his departure — a famous frigate captain like Black Jack Powlett would find a score of volunteers eager to step into his place. He had left without delay, unable to face the leave-taking, letting Renzi tell the others. He hoped he would be missed as much as he missed them. The lump in his throat tightened.

* * *

They drew into Guildford in light drizzle. As he stared moodily from the coach window he saw that the country town had not changed in his absence beyond an imagined wartime unkemptness. They clattered into the old timbered passage of the Angel posting house and finally came to a halt. He handed Cecilia down, ignoring the gaping ostler who had never seen a proper sailor before.

He knew the way, of course, up the high street and under the great clock to the family shop. With his sea-bag comfortably over his shoulder and Cecilia's luggage under his arm, he swung into the accustomed gloom of the shop. The smell of musty horsehair and pomatum took him back but the room seemed smaller than he remembered.

There was a scream of delight as his mother appeared. She clung to him as though he would vanish again before her eyes. His father stood at the door but held back. 'Welcome home, son,' his mother said tearfully, her eyes running over his lean figure. 'Get your sailor costume off, dear, and I'll have such a dish ready for you as will warm the cockles.' Her hands went to his jacket, working at the buttons. Something in Cecilia's manner communicated itself to her, and the fussing turned to flustered pra
ttle
. His father remained still, staring at him.

Kydd took a deep breath and strode over to him. 'I hope I find ye well, Father,' he said.

A smile broke the deep lines of his father's face, and his hand came out, hesitantly. Kydd's generous nature surged to the fore — it was not the man's fault that mortal weakness was laying its hands on him. The room burst into excited babble; Kydd was back in the bosom of his family, and they all wanted to hear of his awful adventures.

Once again the rightful inhabitant of the tiny room above the shop, he peeled off h
is seaman's rig — for the last ti
me. He laid it down tenderly, smoothing the folds, then pulled on his knee breeches and snuff-coloured ruffled waistcoat. It felt flimsy, constricting, after his stout sailor's wear. He felt contempt, hatred for it building.

There was a tiny knock at the door. Cecilia stood there, small and vulnerable. Struggling, she spoke in an unnatural voice. 'Tom — thank you.' Wrestling his thoughts he crossed to her and hugged her tight. 'Need t' get used to it again, is all,' he mumbled.

The days passed with leaden steps. One by one reminders of his sea life faded into the past. The softness of his bed had been suffocating, and he slept on the floor for the first few nights; his mother had
quietly
got rid of his seaman's knife, which had been at his side every waking moment before, and his wooden ditty box containing his personal treasures was replaced by a sensible porcelain dish.

His pigtail did not last either. Cecilia chopped and scissored at its gleaming length and it fell forlornly to the floor. As a perruquier, it just would not do not to wear a wig himself. What was left of the prize money was gratefully accepted, but by unspoken consent after that first night, his time at sea was never again mentioned.

Kydd took to walking alone. It was possible to make the journey from Pewley Downs to Shere along the crest of the North Downs, and in the summer warmth it was a bright and pretty sight. His thoughts were free to roam wherever he wanted. The North Downs had a dual view with a certain meaning for Kydd. On one hand, to the north-east there was the flat plain that led to London, its presence betrayed by a distant pall of dun-coloured smoke. The fleet anchorage of the Nore, where as a pressed man he had spent his first days in the Navy, was not so very far beyond. Over in the other direction was the road south, to the many seaports of the coast, where as many as two hundred sail at a time could be seen from the white cliffs. Unlike any of the others he met on his walks, he knew full well what lay beyond the grey waves breaking ashore.

In the shop, business was not good. Cecilia had been right: the fashion sweeping in from revolutionary Europe for unrestrained hair had a strong hold now and the future for wig-making looked bleak. There was still a small but reliable demand from physicians, the richer merchants and the like, but the Kydds had to compete against a larger establishment in Godalming that could deliver faster.

Kydd's days were now circumscribed by long hours in the workshop punctuated by periods of soul-destroying inactivity behind the counter, waiting for custom. The days turned to weeks and he felt his soul shrivel.

After listl
essly serving ribbons to the voluble Mrs Coombs he looked up from the counter at the person who had just entered — dusty and travel-worn, carrying a ragged bag and in a worn blue sailor's jacket. It was Renzi. He held out his hand.

Kydd couldn't respond at first; it was like seeing a ghost. He was caught utterly off-balance. 'W-well met, sir,' he stuttered, not knowing how to deal with a man he knew to be well-born, but in quite different circumstances his particular friend.

Renzi reached out, took Kydd's hand and shook it warmly. He was shocked at the changes he saw, the slow responses, the downcast look. It was also a grievously sad travesty, seeing Kydd's broad shoulders and lithe foretopman's body draped in wig and breeches and the tight, faded brocade waistcoat. 'Were I to beg shelter for the night, I fear I would sadly inconvenience,' he said, and watched anguish chase delight on his friend's features. 'Nicholas - but o' course! But—'

'I have a story to tell, but it must wait. If you would be so good as to conduct me to a tailor's I will do my best not to shame you to your family — and then we will dine.'

Renzi became another being in long clothes. In anonymous black, a severe and unadorned black, his natural patrician authority readily asserted itself. Other clients in the saloon respectfully made way for them both and they sat down to a dish of salmagundi.

'You'll be stayin' long in town?' Kydd asked, fearful of the reply.

'No plans at the moment, my friend.'

'Then you shall stay at home — my room is yours.' A bed could be made on the floor of the shop for himself.

The cured fish went down rapidly, as did the jug of porter.

'You wonder at my visitation,' Renzi said finally. Kydd smiled, so he went on.
'Artemis
is still in dock, we are sent away on leave,' he said, playing with a fork. 'I thought it proper to visit my family. I posted to the village and walked to the estate.' Renzi seemed to have some difficulty with the tale. Kydd recalled that after a particularly harsh Act of Enclosure by Renzi's father a tenant farmer's son had committed suicide. Out of the highest sensibility and purest logic, Renzi had taken this personally as a moral crime by his family, and in expiation, had sentenced himself to five years' exile at sea, an extraordinary act of self-denial.

Renzi leaned back with a twisted smile. 'At the boundary of the last field I — remembered, saw again the body hanging in the barn.' He looked intensely at his fork. 'I could not go on. I tried, but could not.' His voice was thick, the first time Kydd had heard it so overborne by emotion. 'The nights I slept under a hedge — it was nonsensical, and so here I am.' His eyes glimmered.

He signalled to the pot-boy. 'Well met — indeed it is!' He smiled, and saw Kydd's fumbling. 'In the article of prize money,' he said gently, 'except for a slight indulgence in poetry I have not had the opportunity to get rid of it before now. Allow me to
-.
. .'

The claret was passable and under its influence Renzi heard Kydd's story. His heart went out to his friend, for there was little that he could do himself, cut off from his own family and wealth. It needed a long-term solution, but in the time before he must repair back aboard his ship there was little chance that one would be found.

Kydd's mother was surprised at her son's general rally, and therefore looked at his visitor with some interest. Cecilia's hand flew to her mouth when she recognised him. Renzi's impeccable manners and kind attentions quickly charmed the house and he was warmly welcomed.

On occasion Renzi caught some thoughtful looks from Kydd's father but on the whole it was accounted that Kydd's guest was a fine friend to the family. Cecilia was beside herself with curiosity, but was always courteously deflected, to her considerable chagrin.

Renzi, however, sensed Kydd's desperation; the strong likelihood was that when they parted, the next cruise could span years, and by then — he forced down the thought and bent to the task of making the days as agreeable as he could for his friend.

'Do you wait for me a moment, dear fellow,' Renzi said, outside the bookshop at the top of the high street. Sated with depressing news from the
Anti-Jacobin Review
he longed for a new volume from the young iconoclast Wordsworth.

Kydd entered too, and watched as Renzi took down volume after volume in their fine tooled leather bindings. An odd clunking sound intruded from behind, but it was only a shopman approaching; he had a wooden leg. Kydd did not know him — he must be a new assistant.

'C'n I help ye?' the man said. His voice was strong — in fact, it was hard and had a strength Kydd rec
ognised instantl
y.

'Do I fin' myself addressing a
gentleman
o' the sea?'

The man stopped, and stared suspiciously. 'Are ye lookin' for somethin' special?' he said.

'I'm sorry, I thought—'

'Then y' thought right. So?'

A cor
pulent, worried-looking man bustl
ed up and said loudly, 'Is there any problem? Are the gennelmen being attended to, Mr, er, What's-y'r-name?'

They left without the book. Out
side, the summer afternoon bustl
e of the high street eddied around Renzi as he and Kydd walked back the few steps to the wig shop. Its crabbed windows and general seediness clutched at Renzi's heart. Kydd clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared inside, leaving Renzi alone.

Renzi could feel a grey depression settling. He could not interfere, it was Kydd's decision, a good and noble decision for the sake of his family, but it did not alter the fact that the price was ruinous — it was costing Kydd his spirit and therefore his soul; in twenty years he would be an old man. Renzi sighed heavily. A careless grocer carrying a basket of greens on his head cannoned into him, interrupting his train of thought. He shot the man a glance of such venom that he recoiled in fright and dropped his load.

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. Reluctantl
y, 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 rightl
y 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.'