Mutiny k-4

by Julian Stockwin

  Eastman returned quickly to the ship's side and spoke to the old fisherman again. Then he returned to Dwyer, his face grave. Dwyer hesitated and the two went below, leaving an upper deck seething with rumour.

  'Mr Kydd! Mr Kydd, ahoy - lay aft, if you please.' Binney's hail cut through Kydd's speculations about the situation with the boatswain and he went aft to the helm, touching his hat to the lieutenant.

  'We are to attend the captain in his cabin,' Binney said shortly, turning on his heel. Kydd followed into the cabin spaces. Strangely, the marine sentry had moved from his accustomed place at the door to the captain's day cabin and had taken position further forward.

  Binney knocked and, at the brisk 'Enter', tucked his hat under his arm and opened the door. In the spacious cabin Dwyer and the master stood waiting.

  'I have your word of Kydd's reliability,' Dwyer said curdy, looking at Binney.

  'Why, yes, sir, he is—'

  'Very well.' Dwyer looked disturbed, even hunted. 'What I have to say, you will swear not to divulge to a soul aboard this ship.' He looked first at Kydd, then at Binney.

  'Sir.' Wary and tense, Binney spoke for both of them.

  Dwyer's eyes flicked once more to Kydd. Then he said, 'The fisherman has sure knowledge of a danger to the realm that in all my experience I can say has never before threatened these islands.' He took a deep breath. 'The fleet at Spithead has refused duty and is now in a state of open mutiny. There is a red flag over every ship and they have set at defiance both the Admiralty and the Crown.' He wiped his brow wearily. 'The fisherman cannot be expected to know details, but he swears all this is true.'

  Kydd went cold. The navy — the well-loved and sure shield of the nation - infected with mad revolution, Jacobin plots? It was a world turned upside-down.

  'By God's good grace, we have been spared blundering into the situation, but we have to know more.'

  "The Plymouth squadron, sir?' The forward base was nearest the main French naval strength at Brest.

  'He's not sure, but thinks they may have gone over to their brethren.' Dwyer looked at the master.

  'Near as I c'd make out, sir.'

  Dwyer paused. 'I cannot risk this ship being overrun by mutineers. This is why I have sent for you, Mr Binney. I understand you come from these parts?'

  'Yes, sir. Our estate is in south Devon, some small ways east of Plymouth.'

  'Good. I desire you to land at a point on the coast with Plymouth near at hand, such that within a day you may enter the port in a discreet manner and make contact with the true authority, then to withdraw and report back to me. Now, do you know how this may safely be done?'

  Binney hesitated for a moment. Desperate mutineers would make short work of him if he was caught.

  He requested a chart. It was the standard approach to Plymouth, and he quickly found his place. 'Sir, to the east.'

  'Wembury?'

  'No, sir, that has an army garrison. Further to the east, past the Mewstones,' Binney said, bringing to mind the sea-mark of unusual conical rocks to the south-east of the port. 'Along the coast four or five miles. If I land here -' he indicated a small river estuary '— I'm out of sight on all sides, out in the country. I strike north about two hours and reach Ivybridge. This is on the highway and the posting house for the last change of horses before Plymouth, and there I can ride the Exeter stage into Plymouth.'

  'This seems a good plan. Well done, Mr Binney.'

  Eastman took a closer look at the chart. 'Hmmm, the Yealm and then the river Erme. Suggest you take the four-oared gig in, under sail.'

  'That will do — it's sand, and I'd be satisfied to reach as far up as Holbeton.'

  'Kydd, boat's crew. This is you and ... ?'

  'Poynter, sir, gunner's mate. An' one other. Let me think on it, sir.'

  Dwyer appeared satisfied. 'So we'll raise the coast at dawn, send the boat away, and hope to have you back before dark?'

  'Aye aye, sir,' said Binney quietly.

  'Then I don't have to remind you all that if this terrible news gets abroad . ..'

  In the chill of early dawn, Achilles stood in for the river Erme. The grey, formless land firmed and revealed its rugged character. It was strange to be so close to a perilous shore from which a big ship would normally keep well clear. Sails were backed and within minutes the gig had touched water. Binney and Kydd, with Poynter and a seaman, boarded and set the lug foresail and mizzen to bellying life.

  As Achilles got under way to assume position out to sea, the gig headed inshore. It was clear that Binney knew where he was: the small river estuary ending in a wide flat sprawl of sandy channels met the sea between a pair of bluffs. Binney took the biggest channel, following its sinuous course upstream, past dark woods, some isolated dwellings, steep pastoral idylls and at one point wispy effluvia of a lime kiln.

  It was dreamlike in the early morning to be passing from the vastness and power of the open sea to the enfolding quiet so close to the depths of the lovely English countryside, the farmland, grazing animals, orchards - and in a ship's boat. The smell of wild flowers, cows, cut hay and sun-warmed soil turned Kydd's mind irresistibly to memories of his youth and past summers in Guildford. It was difficult to reconcile where they were to the actuality of what they were doing.

  'Damn,' muttered Binney; the boat had touched sand. Poynter poled off with the boathook. The wind localised, becoming fluky and light; the sails were doused and oars shipped. Later the sand turned to flecked silt and then to dark mud, and it was at this point that Binney put the tiller over and brought their inland voyage to an end.

  'Yarnink Nowle,' Binney announced, coming up to a decaying timber landing place. It took Kydd some moments to realise that the words meant the place, not an order. It was a quiet wood down to the water's edge; a rough path headed steeply up out of sight into it. 'Kydd, with me, you men stay with the boat.'

  Kydd climbed over the gunwale and for the first time since Gibraltar had the good earth under his feet. They trudged up the steep, sinuous path, Binney leading and dressed in nondescript coat and breeches, while Kydd followed in as non-sea rig as he had been able to find.

  They left the wood to cross deep green fields with curious sheep, and Kydd looked at Binney, worried. 'The crew'll hear of th' mutiny fr'm the folks hereabouts.'

  Binney flashed a grin. 'Not here they won't. They know the navy and the press-gang in this part o' the world — they'll keep well away.' Kydd thought of the hard-faced Poynter, and grinned back.

  They crossed another field, ignoring a gaping milkmaid, and arrived at the back of a thatched-roof farmhouse. A dog barked once, then approached to nuzzle at Binney; a leather-gaitered yeoman appeared at the noise and stopped in surprise at seeing Binney. 'Well, whot be doing yer, Maister Binney?'

  Binney smiled. 'Is Jarge going for the post this morning?'

  'Eys, 'ee be saddlin' up thikky donkey.'

  Binney glanced triumphandy at Kydd. 'Nothing changes in the country - we'll be riding to Ivybridge.'

  Sitting on the end of the farm trap with legs dangling as it ground bumpily over the country track, Binney was youthfully spirited, nervous tension working with pleasure at the unexpected return to his roots.

  It was not far to Ivybridge. They passed two tiny villages on the well-worn road to the north and suddenly reached a crossroads. They dropped to the road from the trap, dusting down, and let the mystified farmer continue on his way.

  Binney took a deep breath. 'The London Inn — over by the river. The Exeter mail should be along by ten.' A soft whispering on the morning breeze strengthened until they reached its cause, the Erme river, a crystal clear boisterous rushing over moss-green rocks.

  The beauty and settled loveliness of the tiny hamlet reached out to Kydd; it seemed to belong to another world, one without blood and war, without the unthinkable threat of a fleet mutiny. His mind shied at the very notion — could it be, perhaps, just one of those endless wartime rumours?

  They tramped up the road besi
de the river towards a remarkably pretty humped bridge, set among a profusion of oaks and chestnuts and dappled with sunlight. On the left were some well-kept and dignified mansions; he glimpsed the name 'Corinthia' on one and wondered who could have had the fortune to live there in such a place of peace and beauty.

  They reached the London Inn on the other side of the dusty Plymouth turnpike; a smithy was already in industrious activity beside it, and osders readied horses in the post stables.

  'Mr Kydd, I'd be obliged should you wait for me here,' Binney said, his tone low and serious. 'If I do not return before evening, you are to return to Achilles and tell the captain.'

  'Aye aye, sir,' Kydd acknowledged. Without his naval officer's uniform Binney looked absurdly young for such a risky enterprise and all traces of his earlier animation were now gone. They remained standing awkwardly together under the gaudy inn-sign, the occasional passer-by curious at the presence of such a pair so out of keeping with Ivybridge.

  The coach finally came wheeling down the turnpike, and stopped with a brave crashing of hoofs and jingling of harness; snorting, sweaty horses were led out of their traces and fresh ones backed in, the horsy smell pungent in Kydd's nostrils.

  Binney climbed inside the coach, his grave face gazing out of the window. With hoarse bellows from the driver, the whip was laid on and the coach jerked into motion. Kydd had an urge to wave, but at the last instant made a sketchy naval salute. The coach clattered over the bridge and was gone.

  Kydd stood irresolute: it was hard to remain idle while others faced perils — it was not the navy way. He let the morning sun warm him, then sat on the bench outside the inn and felt the tensions seep away as he listened, with eyes closed, to the cheep and trill of country birds, the rustling of breezes in the hayfield close by, myriad imperceptible rustic sounds.

  His thoughts tumbled along: only hours before he had been at sea, now in longed-for England — but in such circumstances! Where was Renzi? Should he do something? Restless, he opened his eyes and got to his feet. It was getting towards noon and he was hungry. Perhaps he should take a meal.

  In the dark interior of the inn, all glinting brass and pewter, there was only one other, reading a newspaper in the corner. Kydd left him to it and settled in a high-backed bench, relishing the rich sickliness of ale on sawdust.

  'Bliddy blackguards!'

  As there was no one else in the room, Kydd leaned round. 'I beg y'r pardon?' he said mildly.

  'Thikky mut'neers, o' course,' the red-faced man said, shaking the newspaper for emphasis. His appearance suggested landed folk. Kydd caught the 'mutineers' through the round Devon accent and tensed. There was now no question of rumour, it was actuality. 'They'm maakin' fresh demands, tiz maize.'

  'Demands?'

  'Eys zertainly, where've 'ee bin th' last couple o' weeks?' the man said suspiciously.

  'Out o' the country,' Kydd said quickly. 'C'n I take a quick look, friend?'

  The man paused, then passed the paper across. 'Leave it yer when you be vanished, I'll zee 'ee dreckly avter.'

  Kydd snatched up the paper, The Times of London. The front page was all advertisements — 'A patent Oeconomic machine ...' and 'Marylebone Cricket Club, Anniversary Dinner . . .' Impatiently he turned the page. He wanted to see with his own eyes words that would tell him the navy was in revolution.

  '... the Jacobin papers have turned all their speculations ... to the meeting at Portsmouth .. .'

  '.. . notwithstanding all the idle and ignorant reports detailed in the Morning Papers of the day of the discontents at Portsmouth having been rapidly adjusted, we are sorry to say that no such good news has been received .. .'

  Kydd could hardly believe his eyes.

  '. .. the conduct of the seamen ... is reprehensible in the extreme . . .'

  '... Is any man sanguine as to think that Mr Fox could retrieve the general anarchy that threatens us?'

  He stared at the report. This was worse than he had feared, almost beyond credibility. Kydd sat back in dismay.

  A farmer entered, looking in Kydd's direction with a friendly grin, but Kydd could not talk: he turned his back on the man and read on. '. .. correspondence between the Board of Admiralty and Deputation of Seamen ...'

  The Admiralty reduced to treating with mutineers - it was unbelievable.

  He rose, feeling an urgent need to get outside into the bright sunlight. He found the bench, all thoughts of a meal dispelled, and read the report again.

  There was a deal of breathless comment on the audacity of the sailors, their conduct and a sinister, 'The success of the enemy in corrupting our brave Tars is truly formidable. What have we to expect, if we are not true to ourselves at this dreadful moment, when we are betrayed on every side?'

  He turned to the next page. It was in tiny print, and began: 'The Petition, or rather Remonstrance, of the sailors of Lord BRIDPORT'S fleet, is now before the Public, and we most sincerely wish that it was not our duty to publish it.' Underneath was column after column of the verbatim demands of the mutineers, apparendy printed under duress by The Times. Reluctantly, he continued to read.

  THE HUMBLE PETITION- of the SEAMEN and MARINES on Board His Majesty's Ships, in Behalf of Themselves. Humbly sheweth —

  That the Petitioners, relying on the candour and justice of jour Honourable House, make bold to lay their grievances before you, hoping that when you reflect on them, you will please to give redress, as far as your wisdom will deem necessary ...

  Kydd scanned ahead. A central issue emerged: a number of grievances specified not as a demand but a careful laying before their Lordships with a hope of redress'.

  Slowly he folded the newspaper. This was no sudden rising of seamen, this must be organised, deadly. Who or what was at the bottom of it all?

  'Sir, it is as we feared. Plymouth is now in the hands of the mutineers, and the ships have gone over, every one.' Binney was tired and distracted, but respectful before his captain, Kydd at his side. He had returned close-mouthed and abrupt, leaving Poynter and the seaman wondering.

  'Mr Binney, did you make your duty to the admiral's office?' Dwyer snapped. It was a crucial matter for him: his own conduct in the immediate future could well be examined later, but if there were orders . . .

  'I was unable, sir, but I do have this.' Binney fumbled inside his coat and handed over a document.

  Dwyer took it quickly. 'Ah, this is the admiral's seal. Well done, Mr Binney.' He tore open the paper and scanned the few words in haste. 'Thank God - here we have conclusive proof and assurance that the North Sea fleet and the Nore did not join the mutiny, and these are our orders to proceed there with all despatch.'

  Achilles leaned to the wind and, through a strangely deserted Channel, beat eastward. The Start, Portland Race and a distant Isle of Wight passed abeam, all treasured sights for a deep-sea mariner inward bound; Beachy Head loomed up, and past it was the anchorage of the Downs, protected to seaward by the Goodwin sands.

  Home - after such adventures as most could only dream of.

  At the North Foreland they tacked about and ran in to the estuary of the Thames, the sea highway to London, the keys to the kingdom.

  And the Nore. Soon after the low-lying marshy island of Sheppey spread across their course they came upon the unmistakable sight of a forest of black masts: the fleet anchorage of the Great Nore.

  Kydd saw them — it was not the first time for it was here those years ago, at the outset of the war, that he had first stepped on the deck of a man-o'-war. With a stab, he remembered that he had been a pressed man then, miserable, homesick and bitter, but now ... A reluctant smile acknowledged the thought that he had indeed returned home — to his original starting point.

  But the Nore was not a home to one of England's great battle fleets, it was a base for shelter, storing and repair, and an assembling point for the Baltic convoys, a working-up area for new vessels from the Chatham and Deptford shipyards and a receiving and exchange point for the continuous flow of unfort
unates from the press-gang tenders and quota transports. It was a place of coming and going, of transience and waiting.

  In winter a northerly could bring a biting, raw wind for weeks on end, the only solace ashore the drab, isolated garrison town of Sheemess, a bleak place at the northerly tip of Sheppey. The town's sole reason for existence was the dockyard and garrison fort. The rest of the island was a place of marshes, decaying cliffs and scattered sheep pasture, an effective quarantine from England proper.

  Taking no chances, Achilles passed down the line of ships at anchor. No red flags, no mutinous cheering, only the grave naval courtesies of a ship rejoining the fleet Under greying skies the 64 found her berth and the great bower anchors tumbled into the muddy grey where the Thames met the North Sea, and she composed herself for rest.

  Chapter 6

  This Mr Evan Nepean, my lord. He will furnish you with as complete an account as you'd wish and - dare I say it? - more succinct in the particulars.' As a politician and not a seaman, the First Lord of the Admiralty was happy to turn over an explanation of the calamitous events at Spithead to the secretary: he knew the sea cant of the sailors in mutiny and would field the more delicate matters capably.

  'Very well, then,' said Lord Stanhope, easing himself wearily into one of the carved seats around the board table. 'Not the details, if you please, just the salient facts.' Stanhope had made an urgent return from Sweden at the news of the outbreak and was plainly exhausted. But his discreet journeyings abroad had earned him the ear of William Pitt, and it would be folly to underestimate his power.

  Nepean moved round the table the better to access the hanging maps above the fireplace. He pulled down one of Great Britain. 'As you will appreciate, sir, our concentrations of force for the defence of the kingdom are the Channel fleet here at Portsmouth to be directed against the French in Brest, and at Plymouth we find our advanced squadron. At Yarmouth we have the North Sea fleet, which looks directly into the Netherlands and the Baltic, and near there we have the Nore anchorage and the dockyard at Sheerness to victual and maintain them.