Mutiny k-4

by Julian Stockwin

  'Nothing?'

  'I think I made myself clear?' Stanhope frowned.

  'Yes, my lord, but—'

  'There is no hope, either at law or in the machinations of politics — no one would be fool enough to put himself forward in the cause of a mutinous seaman at these times, no one.'

  'I understand, my lord,' Renzi said quietly. He paused, then continued softly, 'Sir, the man is Thomas Kydd, whom you remember perhaps from the Caribbean.'

  Stanhope looked up sharply. 'You may believe I am grieved to hear it.'

  'He has taken the plight of his seamen brothers to heart. My lord, he has the ardour of youth compelling him to rash acts, but still has the love of his country foremost.'

  Staring into the fire, Stanhope said nothing.

  'His would be a great loss to the sea profession, but a greater one to myself.'

  Still no response. Then a stirring. 'Mr Renzi,' Stanhope said, his voice sad and gentle, 'there is nothing I crave more than to be of service to this young man, nothing. But my eminence is as nothing compared to the forces he has caused to be raised against him. I am in truth powerless.'

  Renzi felt hope die. This was the end for his friend. He looked at the floor through misted eyes.

  There was a discreet cough. 'I said that there was nothing I could do. This is certain. But if the Admiralty found that they had good reason to spare him, even to pardon his crimes . . .'

  'My lord, Kydd could never find it in him to inform on, to delate upon his shipmates. This is an impossible course.' Renzi's head dropped again.

  'Then there is one final action that may answer.' 'My lord?'

  'You will forgive the elliptical speech — my conscience is a hard master, as I know is yours.' He considered carefully. 'I can conceive of a circumstance that would have the same effect, result in the same happy conclusion. This will require an act of - of imagination by one devoted to the subject's well-being, yet at the same time be kept from his knowledge at all costs. Renzi, I am speaking of—'

  'I conceive I penetrate your meaning, my lord. Am I to understand you mean this, er, associate to establish a proxy connection to—'

  'Precisely.'

  It was a chance; it was also uncertain and dangerous, but it was a chance — if he had the will and necessary guile.

  In the stillness steps could be heard coming up the stairs.

  An austere man in grey entered with books for the reading desk. 'Frederick, dear fellow!'

  'Ah, the country burns and you are at your Grecian odes, William. Might I present Mr Renzi, visiting London. Renzi, this is Baron Grenville, Mr Pitt's Foreign Minister.'

  'My lord.' Renzi managed an elegant leg, noticing Grenville's polite curiosity. He guessed that few of Stanhope's mysterious acquaintances would merit an introduction.

  'I understand you have further business, Renzi, I won't detain you.'

  * * *

  The coach left from the Blue Boar's Head at two; he had time. At the Fleet market at Holbourn he found a well-used and capacious periwig, and an old-fashioned lace-edged frock coat of the kind more likely to be seen on supercargoes in an East Indiaman; these he bundled into a bag with a pair of pattens — clogs to raise the shoes clear of mud.

  A spectacle shop on Cheapside provided an old silver pair of smoked glasses, like those needed by persons with weak eyes. A heavy ^woc-silver-headed cane and a large body-purse completed his outfitting.

  After a weary and impatient journey he was finally in Rochester. Firmly locking the door to his room, he tried on his gear. It would do, but much hung on its effectiveness.

  Wig powder - he loathed it for the inevitable dusty droppings on his high coat collar, but it was essential for appearances. His face was too healthy, tanned and weather-touched; ladies' face powder would subdue it to an indoor appearance. There was nothing more he could do that night so he took a modest supper and went to bed.

  He couldn't sleep. It was a perilous undertaking, and Stanhope had all but declared that he would be on his own. If he failed — if he was discovered, then . ..

  Too hot in the strange bed, he threw off a blanket. In theory it could just work, but it would mean personal peril, patience and, at the right time, Kydd doing exacdy — to the letter - what was asked of him.

  At the Nore the weather had not improved. Rainy, gusty, and raw off the North Sea, it was Sheerness at its bleakest.

  As usual, Kydd's first morning task was to assemble the day's victualling requisitions. He relied on the other ships to render their lists of requirements: sides of beef, lemon juice, small beer in the cask, dried pease and, this being harbour routine, bread. When the requirements had all been consolidated, he would send these ashore.

  That duty done, he went to see Parker, who was finishing a letter. 'Good day, Tom, we have to call an assembly of the Parliament, you'll agree. Then it's my intent to tour the fleet and speak to the men. I'll wait until we've the stores under hatches, though.'

  It would be a critical meeting. If their united front broke under the strain of competing loyalties it would be a merciless end for them all — but if they held staunch there was still a chance.

  On deck they waited for the boats to thrash out to them. In these racing seas they would be making heavy weather of it, but Kydd had told the other ships to ensure they were not short of provisions for just this eventuality — he knew the dockyard hoys would put discretion before the bellies of sailors when it came to filthy weather.

  The wind whipped at Kydd's oilskins, sending a shiver down his backbone. How was it that Sheerness weather had a quality that made the town seem the rawest, most desolate spot in the kingdom?

  'I spy our cutter,' Parker said, in some puzzlement, pointing to where a boat with the distinctive old-fashioned lug mizzen projected over the transom made its laboursome way towards them. The crews were there to supervise the loading of the hoys, and for some reason were returning early.

  The petty officer in charge came up the side quickly.

  'We bin flammed, Mr Parker. The shonky bastards, they've stopped vittlin'.'

  'What - gave ye no stores? None at all?' Kydd couldn't understand it.

  'None!'

  Parker looked at Kydd. 'I fear, Tom, you and I must get ashore and see what's afoot. Fetch your papers.'

  The victualling storekeeper was not helpful: it was a matter of authority, and for that they had to see a clerk of the cheque. They trudged across the dockyard, aware of the changed atmosphere. No longer the cheerful processions and hands waved in comradeship. Now it was in a sullen, hostile mood.

  'You see?' The clerk's finger stabbed at the requisition form. 'The signature. We have no authority to issue against this.' It was Parker's signature.

  'And why not? You have before.'

  'You needs an orficer ter clap 'is scratch to these.'

  'An' since when did we have t' do this?' Kydd snarled.

  'Steady, Tom,' Parker muttered.

  'This's not th' business of a mutineer,' the clerk said contemptuously.

  'You — you fawney 'longshore bugger, what d' you know about it?' Kydd seized the man's none-too-clean coat and forced him to his knees. 'Why don't y' let us have our vittles?'

  'H-help! M-murder! Help!' The clerk's eyes rolled. Passing dockyard workers stopped. A few moved warily towards Kydd.

  'Let him go, the bastard!' hissed Parker.

  Kydd dropped his hands and stepped back.

  The man dusted himself down ostentatiously. 'Yair, well. Since y' must know, we have orders,' he said, aggrieved but triumphant. 'An' the orders are fr'm the Admiralty, an? they say no vittles t' any ship what wears th' Bloody Flag.'

  A sizeable group of dockyard tradesmen gathered at the commotion. 'T' hell wi' the black mutineers!' shouted one. 'In th' oggin wi' 'em!' yelled another.

  Kydd bunched his fists. 'First man wants t' have his toplights doused, I c'n oblige ye.'

  'Let's be back aboard, Tom,' Parker said. 'It's as I thought. They're going to starve us out.
'

  Even before they arrived back on the ship they caught sight of the 38-gun frigate Espion slowly turning, her slipped cables splashing into the water around her bows. Too quick for the mutineer vessels to bring their guns to bear, she went in with the tide and disappeared round the point.

  In sombre mood, Parker and Kydd rejoined the Parliament in the Great Cabin. 'Reports,' Parker ordered.

  Davis, looking cast-down and ill, opened: 'We now has Espion an' Niger in th' dockyard wi'out the red flag. I have m' doubts on Clyde and San Fi as well. They wants out, we know. Th' fleet istl, they don' know what ter do, an' when they gets noos of th' stoppin' of vittles ...'

  'Brother Bellamee?'

  This fo'c'sleman, a shrunken gnome of a sailor, spent his time ashore, listening and observing. He waited until it was quiet. 'Shipmates, th' sojers, they're on th' march, hundreds on 'em, an' all marchin' this way. They got this

  Gen'ral Grey with 'em, an' he's a tartar. Got 'em all stirred up, settin' guns across the river to th' north, an' I heard he has clouds more of 'em all over in th' country —' 'Thank you, Mr Bellamee.'

  — an' he's goin' ter put two whole reggyments inter the fort. Dunno where they'll kip down, mates. Word is, we can't go ashore any more, 'less we has a pass an' a flag o' truce.'

  The mood became black: it didn't take much imagination to picture a country in arms against them, relentlessly closing in.

  'I was in Mile Town, mates, an' there was a sight.' Kydd had never heard MacLaurin of Director speak before. 'See, all the folks think we's goin' to riot or somethin' fer they're all in a pelt, women 'n' children an' all, a-leavin' town, carts 'n' coaches — anythin' to get away.'

  Parker shot to his feet. 'My God,' he choked, 'what are we doing?' His anguished cry cut through the murmurs of comment. Astonished, all eyes turned to him. His head dropped to his hands.

  'What's wi' him?' Hulme demanded.

  Blake's eyes narrowed. 'Could be he's a-gettin' shy, mates!' Growls of discontent arose — there were many who still distrusted Parker's educated tones. 'We doesn't have ter have the same president all th' time, y' knows.'

  It brought all the talking abruptly to a stop.

  'I votes we has an election.'

  In the first possible coach, a villainous unsprung monster of a previous age, Renzi headed away from Rochester. Time was critical. The coach wound through fields and marshland, across the Swale at King's Ferry and on to the island of Sheppey. Then it was an atrocious journey over compacted, flint-shot chalk roads to his destination - the ancient town of Queenborough, just two miles south from the dockyard but unnoticed since Queen Anne's day.

  There was only one inn, the decrepit Shippe. With much of the population on the move away, there was no questioning of the eccentric merchant with the fusty wig who chose to take rooms just at that time.

  'I'm an abstemious man,' Renzi told the landlord. 'It's my way to take the air regularly.' He was particularly pleased with his affected high voice, and he had taken the precaution, for local consumption, of laying out a reason for his presence — he was a merchant hoping to do business with the dockyard, waiting out the tiresome mutiny at a safe distance.

  The oyster-fishermen at the tiny landing-hard were curious, but satisfied by Renzi's tale of gathering sketches for a painting, and for a generous hand of coins agreed to show him many wonderful views, the events of the Nore permitting. They had no fear of the press-gang for the oyster-fishers of Queenborough carried protections whose rights dated back to the third King Edward.

  Renzi strolled along the single bridlepath that led to Sheerness. Behind his smoked glasses, his eyes darted around — angles, lines of sight, coven the undulating marsh grass was possible, but not easy.

  The road ended at the intersection with that of Blue Town on the way out of the dockyard. He turned left — his business was with the authorities.

  A stream of people were leaving: old women, fearful men with family possessions on carts, stolid tradesmen at the back of drays — and in the other direction troops of soldiers were on their way to the garrison.

  Renzi clutched his bag to him as though in alarm, and shuffled towards Red Barrier Gate. This was now manned with a sergeant and four.

  'I've been asked to attend upon the captain,' Renzi squeaked. The sentry gave him a hard look, then let him through. Renzi passed the hulks, then the public wharf, which was perilously crowded by those begging a passage on the next Chatham boat.

  The entrance to the fort was also well guarded. A moustached sergeant was doubtful about his stated mission and compromised by providing an escort. They set off for the commissioner's house, the seat of operations.

  At the door, Renzi instantly changed his demeanour; now he was in turn wordly and discreet, knowing and calculating. He bowed to the flag lieutenant. 'Sir, I desire audience with Captain Hartwell at your earliest convenience. I may have information . ..'

  Chapter 10

  No hard feelin’s, Mr Parker,’ said Hulme, after the vote.

  'None that a mort more trust wouldn't cure,' Parker said stiffly, reassuming his seat. The interruption, however, had allowed him to regain countenance, and he leaned forward in the old, confident way. 'It's clear that the soldiers are deploying to deny us the shore,' he said crisply. 'They have reinforced the garrison, and we've had reports from Pylades that there are parties of militia splashing about in the mud the other side of the Thames.'

  It brought laughter: if the intention was to surround them with troops, then there would be a lot more cursing, mud-soaked soldiers floundering about in the marshlands.

  'But we have to face it,' Parker continued. 'Ashore we're in danger anyway — they could cut us off and have us in irons in ho time. We're much safer snug on board in our fleet.'

  'Damme,' rumbled Blake, 'an' I was gettin' ter like th' marchin' up an' down wi' our red flag in front of th' ladies.'

  Parker's rejoinder was cut off by a piercing hail. 'Deck hooooo! Ships — men-o'-war, ships-o'-the-line — standin' toward!'

  There was a general scramble for the deck. The lookout in the maintop threw out an arm to the open sea to the north-east. On the horizon was a fleet - no modey collection of vessels, but a first-class squadron of ships-of-the-line in battle order. It was upon them: there was no more time to debate, to rationalise the fighting of fellow seamen — a decision had to be made.

  ''They're flyin' the red flag!'

  'The North Sea squadron! They've come across, joining! Two, five, six — eight of their ship-o'-the-line! It's — it's marvellous!' Parker skipped about the deck in joy. 'Don't you see? We've lost three or four frigates and smaller, but now we've got eight - eight - of the line more.'

  'Doubles our force,' Kydd said. 'At last, th' shabs came across!'

  'An' I'm Joe Fearon, Leopard, an' this is Bill Wallis o' Standard - we come t' say we signed y' eight articles an' we mean to abide by 'em t' death.'

  Kydd responded warily: these were hard men and would need careful handling.

  'Thank you,' said Parker. 'There are many—'

  'An' we've brought a few of our own, like,' Fearon said flady.

  'Oh, may we hear them?'

  'Right. Fer the first we has this. Court martials on seamen ter be made o' foremast hands, not grunters.' 'Yes, well—'

  'Fer the second, we want prize-money three-fifths forrard, two-fifths aft.'

  There was no use in opposing: they had to hear it out. All told there were four articles, which had to be voted upon. Then it was insisted that they be taken ashore and presented to the admiral.

  'I do this from duty, Tom, not by choice. You stay here, my friend.'

  Kydd's spirits were low as he saw him off in the rain. They had doubled their force, but the Admiralty was not moving an iota towards meeting any of their grievances. Where was it all leading?

  When Parker returned, the fleet was in joyous mood, with singing and dancing on deck in the clear moonlit evening. But his face was deeply lined. Buckner had refused even
to accept the articles, and the fear and chaos ashore were worse: now it was open hostility.

  Early the next day the seamen's Parliament met.

  'Brother Kydd, how d' we stan' in the matter o' vittles?' Hulme opened.

  Kydd had estimates: dry stores and those in cask could possibly be shared out among the ships that were running short, but there was already hardship. The difficult part was the usual problem of finding wood and water: cooking salt beef needed a good deal of both, and all had been held back.

  'We c'n hold out f'r another week or so. Then it's two upon four f'r another—'

  'Those fuckin' toads! It's insultin' to us. Th' admiral here commands thirteen o' the line — that's nigh-on what Old Jarvey had at St Vincent.' Hulme scowled.

  Parker sat quite still.

  'Why we has t' sit here, takin' all they wants ter dish out.. .' Hulme finished morosely.

  Parker's face animated suddenly. 'Perhaps we don't.'

  'Ah, how so?' Blake drawled, clearly reluctant for yet another of Parker's schemes.

  But Parker was energised and would not be stopped. 'Think of it, brothers, we could, with one stroke, win free of these shackles and at the same time force their lordships to accept our terms.'

  Conversations stopped around the table. 'Go on, then, cully, let's hear yez,' Fearon, of Leopard in the North Sea squadron, said.

  Parker waited until he had complete attention. 'We have all the means we need to call their lordships' bluff. If they don't want to come to us and talk — we'll force 'em.'

  Hulme sneered. 'Yair, you'll—'

  'We throw a blockade on London.'

  There was an appalled silence, then everyone spoke at once. Parker leaned back in his chair, a smile playing, while he waited for quiet. 'Indeed. We have the power to clamp our hold on the richest trade gateway in the land. No one would dare touch us while we stop every merchantman, arrest everything that sails. Trade comes to a standstill, the mills of industry stop for want of materials, companies fail for want of exports — the City collapses, the government falls.'