Mutiny k-4

by Julian Stockwin

  'We are His Majesty's most loyal and dutiful subjects. Our intentions are noble, our motions virtuous. Why then do we, victims of a barbarous tyranny, have to clamour for justice? I will tell you! King George is surrounded by corrupt and treacherous advisers, but now they have been brought low, the scoundrels, by common seamen. By us!'

  Despite himself, Kydd was transfixed by the scene. Here was the man who had pulled together seamen from a dozen ships in common cause - so many hard men, tough seamen who had met the enemy in battle and prevailed: they were not a rabble to be swayed by wild words. They were being asked to risk their necks for others, and would not easily have been convinced.

  Parker's voice rose. 'While we stand steadfast, they must treat with us, and our claims are just and few. As I speak, in London there are meetings of the lords and nobles, the ministers and secretaries — and they are meeting because they have to! No longer can they ignore us. And all because we stood up for our rights, without flinching.'

  Kydd saw men around beginning to look thoughtful, others becoming animated.

  'Fellow seamen, let's give it three hearty cheers — and I invite any who will to step ashore this afternoon and lift a pot with me to the King, and confusion to his false friends.'

  Coxall stepped forward with a grim smile. 'An' it's three cheers 'n' a tiger!' he roared. This time the exultation was full-hearted, and there was an air of savage joy as Parker stepped down to make his way back to the boat.

  Achilles's boats were soon in full use, putting off full of libertymen keen to taste the sweets of success in a ran-tan ashore.

  Kydd gazed around the anchorage. Sandwich swung serenely to her buoy, but her decks were alive with activity, her boats similarly employed. Inshore of Achilles was Director, Bligh's ship. Kydd wondered what had happened to him: this was the second mutiny he had suffered. Astonishingly, the ships showed little sign of the breathtaking events taking place, all men-o'-war at the Nore were flying their flags and pennants as though nothing had happened.

  Kydd had not been turned out of the ship, like some of the officers, but he found his estrangement from the seamen irksome. But if they were enjoying a spree ashore, he saw no reason not to step off himself — if only on ship's business. He had a seaman in his division in sick quarters ashore somewhere: he would visit, and perhaps call on Kitty. He found himself a place in the cutter, enduring jovial taunts from sailors who had no doubt where he was headed.

  They rounded the point and ran the boat alongside. The dockyard was in uproar. Sailors and their women were everywhere. Along with grog cans some bore rough banners - 'Success to our Cause!', 'Billy Pitt to be damn'd!'

  Dockyard artisans left their workshops and joined the glorious merrymaking, and here and there Kydd saw the red coats of soldiery; it seemed the garrison was taking sides.

  A brass band led by a swaggering sailor with a huge Union Flag came round the corner in a wash of raucous sound, scattering urchins and drawing crowds. It headed towards the fort on the point and Kydd was carried forward in the press. The militia was formed up, but the procession swirled around them, and while officers and sergeants tried to march the soldiers off, laughing sailors walked along with them, joking and urging.

  Kydd found himself caught up in the carnival-like mood. He took off his blue master's mate coat, swinging it over his arm in the warm spring sunshine before wholeheartedly joining in the chorus of 'Britons Strike Home'.

  He resisted the urge to join fully in the roystering, feeling a certain conscience about the sick man he had come to see, and took the road to Blue Town, passing the hulks and on through Red Barrier Gate, which was unmanned.

  Blue Town had taken the mutineers to its heart. The shanty town, with its maze of mean alleyways, taverns and bawdy-houses rocked with good cheer. Seamen came and went raucously and more processions brought people spilling out on to the street to shout defiance and condemnation.

  Kydd set off the quarter-mile over the marshes for Mile Town, a rather more substantial community with roads, stone houses and even shops for the quality. As he entered the settlement he saw that there was a quite different mood — the few sailors who had strayed this far were neither feted nor cheered, shops were shuttered and in the streets only a few frightened souls were abroad.

  The temporary sick quarters were in a large hostelry, the Old Swan, which was near the tollgate for the London turnpike. Kydd turned down the path and walked through the open door, but the dark-stained desk just inside was deserted.

  He walked further — it was odd, no orderlies or surgeons about. Suddenly noise erupted from a nearby room, and before Kydd could enter a black-coated medical man rushed past. 'Hey — stop!' he called, in bewilderment, after the figure, who didn't look back, vanishing down the road in a swirl of coat-tails.

  Not knowing what to expect, Kydd went into the room.

  'Ye'll swing fer this, mate, never fear,' a bulky seaman shouted, at a cringing figure on his knees. 'N-no, spare me, I beg!'

  Another, watching with his arms folded, broke into harsh laughter. 'Spare ye? What good t' the world is a squiddy oF ferret like you?'

  It was a sick room. Men lay in their cots around the walls, enduring. One got to his elbow. 'Leave off, mates! Safferey, 'e's honest enough fer a sawbones.' He caught sight of Kydd standing at the doorway. 'Poor looby, thinks th' delegates are comin' to top 'im personally.' The surgeon was desperately frightened, trembling uncontrollably. 'Said they were here ter check on conditions, an' if they weren't up to snuff, they'd do 'im.'

  'Shut yer face, Jack,' one of the delegates growled. 'O' course, we're in mutiny, an' today the whole o' the fleet is out 'n' no one's ter stop us gettin' our revenge — are you?'

  'Time t' let him go,' Kydd said, helping the shattered man to his feet. Wild-eyed, Safferey tore free and ran into a side room, slamming the door behind him.

  The thick-set delegate's face hardened. Kydd snapped, 'Y'r president, Mr Parker, what does he think o' yez topping it the tyrant over th' poor bast'd? Thinks y' doing a fine job as delegates, does he?'

  The two delegates looked at each other, muttered something inaudible and left.

  A muffled clang sounded from the side room, then a sliding crash. Kydd strode over and threw open the door. In the dim light he saw the form of the surgeon on the floor, flopping like a landed fish. The reek of blood was thick and unmistakable as it spread out beneath the dying man, clutching at his throat. The mutiny had drawn its first blood.

  'Take a pull on't,' Kitty urged, the thick aroma of rum eddying up from the glass.

  Kydd had been shaken by the incident, not so much by the blood, which after his years at sea had lost its power to dismay, but by the almost casual way the gods had given notice that there would be a price to pay for the boldness of the seamen in committing to their cause.

  Paradoxically, now, he was drawn to them - their courage in standing for their rights against their whole world, their restraint and steadfast loyalty to the Crown, their determination to sustain the ways of the navy. It would need firm control to ensure that hotheads didn't take over; but if they never left sight of their objectives, they must stand a good chance of a hearing at the highest levels.

  'Thank ye, Kitty,' he said.

  Her face clouded for a moment. 'An' that was a rummer I had saved f'r Ned, poor lamb.'

  The snug room was warmly welcoming to his senses, and he smiled at Kitty. 'It's a rare sight in the dockyard.'

  'Yes, an' it's not the place f'r a respect'ble woman,' she said, with feeling.

  'Ye should be pleased with y'r sailors, that they've stood up f'r their rights.'

  She looked away. 'Aye.' Then, turning to Kydd with a smile, she said, 'Let's not talk o' that, me darlin', we could be havin' words. Look, we're puttin' on a glee tomorrow on Queen Street. Would y' like to come?'

  'With you? As long as I c'n get ashore, Kitty, m' love.'

  She moved up to him, her eyes soft. 'Come, Tom, I've a fine rabbit pie needs attention. An' after .
..'

  Coxall waited until Kydd sent his men forward and was on his own. 'If I could 'ave a word, Tom.' 'Eli?' he said guardedly.

  'Well, Tom, ye knows I ain't as who should say a taut hand wi' the words.' 'Er, yes, mate?'

  'An' I have t' write out these rules o' conduc', which are agreed b' the committee. They has to get sent t' Sandwich fer approval.' He looked awkwardly at the deck. 'Heard ye was a right good word-grinder an' would take it kindly in yez if you could give me a steer on this.'

  'What about Farnall? He was a forger, y' knows.'

  'He's over in Sandwich wi' Dick Parker.'

  'Eli, y' knows I'm not in with ye.'

  'I understands, Tom, but we ain't in the word-grubbin' line a-tall, it's a fathom too deep for me an' all.'

  'I'll bear a fist on y' hard words, but — y' writes it out fair y'selves afterwards, mind.'

  'Right, Tom,' said Coxall.

  The other delegates moved over respectfully, giving Kydd ample room on the sea-chest bench. He picked up the draft and read the scratchy writing.

  'What's this'n?' he asked, at the first tortuous sentence.

  'Er, this is ter say we only wants what's agreed b' everyone, no argyments after.'

  'So we has this word for it, and it's "unanimous",' Kydd said. 'We say, "To secure all points, we must be unanimous.'" He reached for a fresh paper, made a heading, and entered the article.

  'Thanks, Tom.'

  'An' this one: "We turns out o' the ship all officers what come it the hard horse." You may not say this, cuffin, they'd think you a parcel o' shabs.' He considered for a space. 'Should you like "All unsuitable officers to be sent ashore" in its place?'

  'Yes, if y' please.' They dealt with the remaining articles in turn, and when it was finished, he handed back the sheet. 'Now ye get them copied fair, an' Achilles is not let down a-tall.'

  A seaman in shore-going rig hovered nearby. 'Why, Bill, mate, are y' ready, then?' Coxall asked.

  'Yeah, Eli,' the seaman said. He had his hat off, held in front of him, but Kydd could make out Achilles picked out in gold on a ribbon round it.

  'Then here's y' money.' It was five pounds, all in silver and copper. The man accepted gingerly.

  Coxall turned back to Kydd. 'We're sendin' delegates t' Spithead, tellin' 'em we've made a risin' in support. Bill and th' others are goin't' bring back some strat'gy an' things fr'm the brothers there. On yer way, cully.'

  Coxall found no problem in confiding in Kydd. 'They're doin' right well in Spithead. Had a yatter wi' the admiral, an' th' Admiralty even gave our tally o' grievances to the gov'ment.' He allowed a smile to spread. 'All we gotta do is follow what they done.'

  Despite all that was going on, Kydd never tired of the vista. Even after several days the estuary of the Thames was, in its ever-changing panorama, a fascinating sight, the sea highway to the busiest port in the world. Sail could be seen converging on the river from every direction; big Indiamen, the oak-bark-tanned sails of coasters, bluff-bowed colliers from the north, plain and dowdy Baltic traders, all in competition for a place to allow them to catch the tide up the sweeping bends of the Thames to the Pool of London.

  Kydd knew it took real seamanship: the entrance to London was probably the most difficult of any port. The oudying sandbanks — the Gunfleet, Shipwash, the Sunk - were intricate shoals that the local coasters and the pilots alone knew; only the careful buoyage of Trinity House made transit possible for the larger vessels. The ebbing tide would reveal the bones of many a wreck if ever a lesson were needed.

  The fleet anchorage of the Great Nore was to one side of the shipping channels, safely guarded by these outer hazards, but in its turn acting as the key to the kingdom, safeguarding the priceless torrent of trade goods and produce in and out of London.

  In the calm sea, the anchorage was a-swarm with boats, under sail and going ashore, or with oars while visiting each other. Some outbound merchantmen tacked towards the scene, curious to see the notorious fleet in mutiny, but kept their distance.

  Reluctandy Kydd went below to see the master; no matter that the world was in an uproar, charts still needed correcting, accounts inspected. But Eastman was not in his cabin. He made to leave, but was stopped by Coxall. Five others were with him.

  'Beggin' y'r pardon, mate, but Mr Parker begs leave t' make y'r acquaintance.'

  Every ship had its smell, its character, and Sandwich did not prove an exception: approaching from leeward Kydd was surprised at its acrid staleness and reek of neglect and decay.

  They hooked on at the mainchains, Kydd gazed up at the 90-gun ship-of-the-line with interest; this vessel had started life nearly forty years before, in the wonderful year of victories, and had gone on to see service in most parts of the world. But she had ended up as a receiving ship for the Nore, little more than a hulk that would never again see the open sea. She was now where the press-gang and quota-men were held before they were assigned to the ships of the fleet.

  The old-fashioned elaborate gilded scroll-work around her bows and stern was faded and peeling, her sides darkened with neglect, but nevertheless she was the flagship of Vice Admiral Buckner, commander-in-chief of the Nore, now humiliatingly turned out of his ship and ashore.

  Kydd grabbed the worn man-rope and went up the side. He was curious to take a measure of the man who had brought his shipmates to such peril. Stepping aboard he was met by two seamen. 'T' see Mr Parker,' he said.

  'Aye, we know,' one said, 'an' he's waitin' for ye now.'

  The ship was crowded. Men lay about the deck, barely stirring in attitudes of boredom; others padded around in not much more than rags. As well as the usual gloom of between-decks there was a reek of rot and musty odours of human effluvia.

  They thrust through, making their way aft, and into the cabin spaces. 'One t' see th' president,' called his escort. A seaman with a cudass came out, and motioned Kydd inside.

  It was the admiral's day cabin, with red carpets, hangings and small touches of domesticity. Kydd had never entered one before, but he was not going to be overawed. 'Th' admiral's cabin suits ye?' he said to Parker, who had risen from behind a polished table to meet him.

  Parker stopped, a slight smile on his face. 'It's the only quiet place in the ship, Mr Kydd,' he said pleasantly. 'Please sit yourself down, my friend.'

  Kydd brisded. He would be no friend to this man, but he thought better of challenging him openly at this stage. He found a carved chair with a gold seat and sat in it - sideways, with no pretence at politeness.

  'It's kind in you to visit, Mr Kydd. I know you don't subscribe to the validity of our actions, so I particularly wanted to thank you for the handsome way you helped the delegates aboard your ship.'

  'They're no taut hand as ye might say at words,' Kydd said carefully. This Parker was no fool: he was educated and sharp.

  'I should introduce myself — Richard Parker, for the nonce president of delegates, but sometime officer in His Britannic Majesty's Sea Service. My shipmates are happy to call me Dick.'

  'Officer?' Kydd said, incredulous.

  'Indeed, but sadly cast up as a foremast hand after a court martial as unjust as any you may have heard.' Parker's voice was soft, but he had a trick of seizing attention for himself rather than the mere offering of conversation.

  'Are ye a pressed man?' Kydd asked, wanting time.

  'No, for the sake of my dear ones, I sold my body as a quota man back to the navy. You may believe I am no stranger to hardship.'

  The dark, finely drawn features with their hint of nervous delicacy were compelling, bearing on Kydd's composure. 'Do y' know what ye've done to my men, Mr Delegate President?' he said, with rising heat. 'Y've put their heads in a noose, every one!'

  'Do you think so? I rather think not' He leaned across the table and held Kydd with his intensity. 'Shall I tell you why?'

  'I'd be happy t' know why not.'

  'Then I'll tell you — but please be so good as to hear me out first' He eased back slightly, his gaze
still locked on Kydd's. 'The facts first. You know that our pay is just the same as in the time of King Charles? A hundred and fifty years — and now in this year of 'ninety-seven an able seaman gets less than a common ploughman. Do you dispute this?'

  Kydd said nothing.

  'And talking of pay, when we're lying wounded of a great battle, don't they say we're not fit to haul and draw, so therefore not worthy of wages?'

  'Yes, but—'

  'Our victuals. Are we not cheated out of our very nourishment, that the purser's pound is not sixteen ounces but fourteen? I could go on with other sore complaints, but can you say I am wrong? Do I lie in what I say?'

  'Aye, this is true, but it's always been so.'

  'And getting worse. You've seen this ship for yourself - the navy is falling into a pit of ruin, Tom, and there's no help for it. And because you've got uncommon good sense I'll tell you why.

  'Has it crossed your mind, there's been petitions from sailors going up to the Admiralty crying out with grievances in numbers you can't count, and for years now? Yet not once have we had a reply — not once! Now, I've been on the quarterdeck, I know for a cast-iron fact these do get carried on to London. But they never get there! How do I know? Because if they did, then we'd be heard and we'd get redress.'

  He let it sink in, then continued: 'You see, Tom, they're not meant to arrive. There are, up in London, a parcel of the deepest dyed rogues who have ever been, a secret and furtive conspiracy who have placemen everywhere, and live by battening on those who can't fight back - I mean the common seaman, who is away at sea and never allowed ashore to speak.'

  Kydd frowned. There was nothing he could think of that said this was impossible.

  'You doubt? I've thought long and hard of why it is that wherever we go in the sea service we always come on those who have a comfortable berth and leech on the poor sailor. Have you seen them in the dockyards?

  Such corruption, and all unchallenged! The victuallers, sending casks of rotten meat, the merchants buying up condemned biscuit and selling it back at a price — how can they cheat so openly? It's because they're protected by this conspiracy, who in return receive a slice of the proceeds ...' He sat motionless, the intensity of his expression discomfiting Kydd.