by Alaric Bond
"Your father sends his regards, Richard; I was with him not three days back."
"Thank you, sir. I hope to call on him directly."
Parker raised an eyebrow. "I’m not sure that will be possible."
"You’re thinking of the court martial?"
"Not especially," Parker examined his drink at leisure. "Although there will have to be one, and your fellow, Scales, will hang of course."
"He claims not to have wounded the marine."
"No, blames it on his mate, so I understand, a measure of their fellowship, I would chance. Seems his comrade thinks different, as well he might. It is of little consequence; blood was drawn and authority challenged: we’ll string ‘em both up, like as not." Parker paused, as a thought occurred. "Mind, it could influence things as far as that other affair is concerned." There was a pause as the old man became lost in thought.
"Other affair, sir?"
Parker returned. "All in good time, Richard. But this is not a good place for Pandora, you’ll have to take her away."
"She is in need of repair, sir."
"That’s as maybe, but still you must be gone."
"Are you worried about my people?"
"In truth, I am worried for your people. You saw how easily some were swayed by twenty or so hot heads."
"From what I can tell, our draft from the Channel Fleet was made up almost exclusively of misfits and malcontents."
Parker laughed sharply. "Common enough; when a man is asked to give up some of his crew, he ain’t likely to choose topmen."
"No, indeed, but I fear these were the very worst. They had been given the idea for mutiny, but not the organisation, nor the control."
"That’s as may be; still, it would be wrong to tempt fate further. I’m afraid a foreign station is out of the question, but there is little reason why you should not be sent to another home port."
"You think the mutineers will let me sail?"
"Oh, no doubt of it; Pandora is a frigate, an escort: you may go as you please."
Banks shook his head. "It would seem a strange way to run a mutiny," he mused, sipping at his drink. "To openly rebel, refuse to sail, risk the noose and many lesser punishments, then allow frigates and other escorts to accompany convoys and generally move at will."
"This could in no way be thought of as a normal mutiny," Parker was long past the age for sipping, and drank deep, before placing his empty glass down firmly on the delicate table by his side. "We knew something was a-coming, of course; there’d been no end of petitions and the like. My Lord Howe passed them on to Spencer at the Admiralty, but of course he did nothing."
"No?"
"Well, who could blame him? Besides, there was little he could do, and no one was going to listen, not until something like this blew up."
"They’re listening now?"
"Oh yes," Parker picked up his glass and spun it thoughtfully. "They’re listening now all right. I said we was aware, but perhaps that isn’t strictly just. Admiral Bridport knew nothing, not until I sent word, mid April," he sighed. "Commander of the Channel Fleet, and no one thought to tell him his men were communicating with the Admiralty. Never known Alex to be so angry: wrote to the board directly, but if you ask me it had already gone on for too long and the men were tired of being ignored. I’m not sure if they got his letter and responded out of spite, but with the next despatch my Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty saw fit to order Gardner’s squadron to transfer to St Helens; that was on Easter Sunday. We all knew the men wouldn’t take it, and we were right."
"They refused to sail?"
"They did. Incredible, isn’t it?"
Banks sipped at his drink again. Incredible was the word. In the past, nearly every instance of mutiny had been contained within a single ship; for several to be involved, let alone a squadron or an entire fleet, would have taken a great deal of organisation and enterprise.
"Charlie Pole went to the Admiralty and told them face to face. Spent half the night with Nepean and Spencer. Next day Spencer speaks to Pitt and before you knows it, Spencer’s down here himself. Says Billy agreed to everything they asked for."
"Everything?"
"Pretty well; there were a few qualifications of course, but in the main they had it in the bag."
"And that was, when?"
"Oh, we’re still talking the middle of April. The delegates met in the Charlotte, and by the end of the week it looked like we were getting back to normal, although how anything can ever be normal again, when the men have been shown to have power, I do not comprehend."
Banks shook his head, and Parker signalled for both their glasses to be refilled.
"Last thing they asked for was a King’s pardon; no problem there, Spencer went back up to London himself, and I was able to distribute to all who required by the following Sunday."
"Brisk work."
"It was; just a week after everything had started off. Shame our lords and masters couldn’t have acted as quickly in the first place: none of this need happen."
"But the fleet is still in mutiny?" Banks prompted.
"Oh yes, it all started to go rather awry, I fear. Proclamation had to be ratified by Parliament of course, but they didn’t get that done till a few days back. By then the main fleet had finally moved down to St Helens, where you see them now. A few remained here, Marlborough, Minotaur, with Thomas Miller and his son on board, and Nymphe. London stayed as well, Colpoys decided he wanted to watch the other ships, as well he might.
"And there we have it, idle ships and idle men; you can imagine the rumours; the people all ahoo from their demands being granted, yet nothing apparently happening. Days went by, then weeks, and the people started to wonder if they’d been sold a pup. Wind turned in our favour last Monday, but it were no good asking them to sail; we could tell nothing was to come of it until they had firm news of the ratification from Parliament, and all appeared destined to blow up once more. And just because our esteemed members couldn’t get down to a decent day’s work, f’ra change."
Both men paused to drink, before Parker continued.
"The mutineers met again, and came to some sort of a conclusion. Then they set off to Spithead to spread the news there. Colpoys saw them coming and came the high and mighty; ordered their boat off and called up his marines. The rascals boarded in spite and all turned very nasty, we lost several men; London’s first lieutenant shot one."
"Bover, Peter Bover?" Banks exclaimed. "Why I spoke with him not six months back."
"And well you might once more, but do not count on it. Men took umbrage and put a noose about his neck; they’d have strung him up there and then, except that some thought better of it."
"I’m glad."
"Indeed, it was that fellow Joyce what swayed things, the one you met this morning; quartermaster’s mate from the George. I can’t say I approve of all this, of course, but in the main the delegates are reasonable enough; certainly not the bunch of revolutionary cut-throats that Spencer and his press would have folk believe."
"You’ve said they are allowing frigates through."
"Yes, any escorting vessels are excluded from the mutiny, even if they wants to join. Romney and Venus were due out with a Newfoundland convoy. They tried to come across the day after it all blew up. Delegates told them straight - how did they put it? ‘Their desire and earnest wish was that they continued to obey orders.’"
"Extraordinary."
"Extraordinary be damned, it’s devilishly clever."
Banks raised his eyes, as Parker continued. "The country depends on commerce, and commerce means ships. The rebels know they need the people behind them, and to try an’ starve us out will make them unpopular. As it is, well, you only have to read their demands; fair pay, better food, leave once in a while, ‘tis stuff the mob can understand. And if the mob’s behind them, as they are, Spencer, Pitt and Parliament really hasn’t much of a say."
Parker drained the remains of his drink in one, and peered at the empty glass
for a moment. "Mind, they’re keeping discipline in the ships; watches are running as normal, officers respected; even saluted."
"Indeed?"
"Oh yes, but not always obeyed, and recently they’ve been taking to putting those ashore they don’t take a fancy to. They’ve always said they would return to duty if the French look like coming out. I’m inclined to believe them, although I’d rather it not put to test."
"So, where are we now?"
"Now, Richard? Now we are in limbo. Word is my Lord Howe’s coming back from London, even as we speak, but what he brings with him, no one can say. Meanwhile we stay in an uneasy truce."
"And Pandora?"
"Pandora is better off out of here, repair or no."
"I could head back to Falmouth?"
"You’d be no better there, the situation is roughly the same."
"London?"
"More chance, though these are troubled times; and anything might occur. Your convoy’s bound for the docks, so I believe. We can take the capture here in Portsmouth; but someone’ll have to see those merchants through, might as well be Pandora."
Banks eyed the admiral warily. "Sir, I was hoping to stand down."
"Were you indeed?" Parker rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers as he considered. "Getting tired of your saucy little ship are ye?"
"Not tired, exactly."
"But wanted a change, eh?"
Banks nodded. "Yes sir, that’s about it."
Parker’s eyes flashed suddenly. "Well you can forget all about that, if you want to remain wearing a King’s uniform."
In his surprise Banks almost dropped his glass, and it was with considerable effort that he replaced it on the table without damage.
"I’m sorry, sir I don’t understand."
"Well it’s time you did, young man. I’m not saying you haven’t done well; few, if any, could have fared better. But to place you in your current position has caused not a small amount of strife for your father. And his friends, if the truth be known."
Banks was suddenly aware of a chilling in the atmosphere that was very nearly physical; the conversation had taken a distinctly dangerous turn.
"Sir, I have nothing but gratitude for…"
"Spare me, sir, spare me. I don’t think you know the position you are in. Men crying out for employment, and you thinking it better you should have a bigger ship, and a little more clout, ain’t that the case?"
"Sir I…"
"Damned country near on its knees, with nary a friend to help, our own sailors holding us to ransom, and you’re thinking of changing a ship, a ship that has proved itself in action."
"I really hadn’t thought along those…"
"Then do not, and do not let me hear any more talk of shifting, or moving on." Parker sat back in his chair and signalled for more brandy. The servant came and attended to him. Both men were silent for some time, then Parker gave a tired smile.
"I said these are troubled times, Richard, you must understand that."
"I do, sir."
"You’ve been at sea for a while; difficult to keep track of politics and the like when you have a ship to manage." He drank from his glass. "We need all the good men, so no more talk of changing ships eh? Not until this little lot is over."
"No, sir."
Parker gave him another smile. "Good, good, I am very glad to hear it. It’s stability we want at this moment." He looked at the young frigate captain with not a little affection. They were very similar, might even have been brothers, were it not for the fifty odd years that separated them, although that, to Parker, seemed like no time at all. He drained his glass and coughed sharply. "Next thing I’ll be hearing, you’ll be thinking yourself in love," he said.
* * * * *
The sick bay was emptier now; Manning retreated to the small desk and checked the ledger. The ink had fully dried on the last discharge so he closed the heavy book, but paused before replacing it on the shelf under the laxatives.
All but three of the patients had been taken off earlier in the afternoon, most would be transferred to Haslar, the naval hospital, although two, suffering from bursten belly, had been discharged ashore. Abdominal hernias were a common ailment, caused in the main by the normal rigours of shipboard life. There was little even a hospital could do, and it would be up to them to fend for themselves from now on; certainly they were of no further use to the Navy.
The marine had been shot just below the right shoulder, the pectoralis major. It was not a bad wound, considering the pistol had been fired at close range, and Doust had removed the ball easily enough. The lad was in Haslar now; providing infection did not set in or the joint itself prove affected, he should be back to normal duties within the month. The Frenchman had also recovered well from the amputation; he too had been taken away although in his case it was probably to a prison hulk, or maybe the new gaol they had built in the West Country. Manning had been concerned that he would not receive further medical treatment; there were remaining ligatures sealing his arteries which would have to be removed in due course. Nothing he could say or do would influence the Frenchman’s fate however, and he soon forgot about him.
Piper was still there. His wound had responded well, and the ragged scar was healing nicely. He would also have been transferred to Haslar for recuperation, but Piper had refused to go. Despite the excellent chance that no more than a week in the hospital would see him discharged a free man, he seemed convinced that the only way he would leave was as a corpse, and chose to stick it out in Pandora instead.
And the wounded were not the only ones to have gone. As soon as the ship had been moved out of the channel, and moored in a safe anchorage, officers had appeared from the shore. An armed marine guard came for Scales and two of his mates; many had witnessed their departure, although little was said. In fact they were manacled up and led from the ship in silence, a silence that was both dangerous and disquieting to anyone familiar with the ways of British seamen. Then further changes were made.
In consultation with Caulfield, all those from the Channel Fleet draft were swiftly removed, apart from one, who seemed to have friends on board. They had not been with the ship for long, and seemed content to leave. There were also others, men marked out, either by their fellows or officers, who considered them as no longer needed. It was clear that they would not be facing charges, or further discrimination, but Pandora was no longer their ship, and they were to be moved. This also was carried out in virtual silence, with none of the comments or ribaldry usually considered essential when shipmates departed.
But then the mood of the people had been strained following the mutiny; the mutiny that had hardly happened, the one that all regretted, and were now desperately trying to forget about as the remaining men threw themselves in to settling their ship down to anchor.
Many that were left, indeed most, sympathised with the demands made by the official mutineers, the ones who were still negotiating almost in sight of Pandora as she swung at anchor. But that was an organised rebellion; one undertaken with care and planning; undertaken by petty and junior officers and, in the main, reasonable men. Men who knew they had right on their side, and that perseverance and patience were better weapons than intimidation or violence. Scales’ rebellion had been totally different; he had taken his followers by surprise, and alienated the loyal hands with the wounding of the marine and threatening the captain.
The young quartermaster’s mate from the Royal George who had boarded Pandora was one of the official delegates, and would be lucky to avoid the noose at the end of matters. Despite this he had spoken well, told the hands that there was no need for Scales’ tactics. Told them that the actual mutiny was being run on more civilised lines and that the mutineers themselves were, as a body, loyal and patriotic. He had explained that conditions on the rebel ships had changed little: watches were called, and stores taken on. Officers were still respected, even though some of their orders might be ignored, and even punishments were awarded and carried
out in the normal manner. Were the French to put to sea, every Jack would return to duty, and the ships would sail and fight in defence of their country. The meeting that had started with Fraiser’s address broke up then, and the men returned to duty, subdued, and shaken by what they had witnessed. They worked without comment, carrying out the usual shipboard routines promptly, and with every respect for every level of officer. But there was a change.
It was subtle; nothing that could be identified, or acknowledged but it stood out plainly for anyone with the time to notice. The men were different; repentant and yet defiant. The joy and swagger that had come from two successful ship to ship actions and a fleet victory at St Vincent had gone, and there was none of the usual banter and supposition about pay, shore leave and wives.
They felt that the action they had taken had disgraced them in some way, yet was also necessary. To challenge authority might have been wrong, but was it right for them to have been placed in a position where the challenge had been all but inevitable? Perhaps the delegates would pound out a resolution; one that would be acceptable to all, and the whole untidy mess could be forgotten; that would be the ideal solution. But it would take time, and until then the men were different, and because of it, the ship itself had altered.
And she had gone; she had been one of the first to go. The captain had left to visit the port admiral before noon, and had sent a message that he was to stay ashore until further notice. There had also been one for Kate. It had just outlined the arrangements for transferring her and her father to the London hospital, although she had been strangely reticent about him reading, or even seeing the note. After knowing each other for little more than a week, and discovering so much more just days after, their separation had been awkward, distant almost and, he couldn’t deny it, cold.