by Alaric Bond
The man smiled. "There’s nigh on two hundred families living there," he said. "My own including; an’ they ain’t half as bad as they appears; we got rooms on the half deck, an’ very nice they are to."
Banks smiled in return. "Well, we won’t be presuming on your hospitality. The men will stay on board, they’ll keep out of the way as much as possible."
"That would be fine, captain. An’ probably the soundest place for them, if you don’t mind me saying. Mind you, for as long as they’re flying them red flags, I don’t see how anywhere is properly safe."
* * * * *
Two days later Manning sat in the Chequers, a large and popular alehouse on the east side of Sheppey, and near to the docks where Pandora would be waiting for him. His business ashore had gone extremely well, and he eyed the tankard of dark Kentish ale with pleasant expectation. He had travelled to London on the mail coach, arriving at Surgeons’ Hall about the same time as Pandora passed Beachy Head. The appointment was made for three days hence; almost exactly the period of time he had hoped for, and he had booked himself in to a nearby boarding house, paying extra for a private room. The days were spent with his head buried in books, eating and drinking little, but sending down for more candles so often that his landlady grew suspicious, and challenged him with all manner of nefarious activities. On the third day he had washed and dressed as well as he could, and appeared for inspection a good half an hour before the appointed time. There were three others to be examined that day and, being the last to apply, Manning had been the last to be seen.
The board had consisted of three physicians and a young surgeon; the latter had done most of the questioning, while his elders and betters flipped through Manning’s brief history. It had hardly taken an hour; less time than any of the previous applicants. He had answered on amputation and the preventative measures for gangrene. Venereal disease was also touched upon, and Manning had blessed Soames and his ailment for giving the extra edge that allowed his answers to ring out with confidence. Then there was a little about diet and the measures that should be taken to maintain a strong constitution amongst the people. He had to prove he was familiar with the various returns and reports he would be responsible for, and there were a couple of simple questions about the colour of glass used for different types of medicines.
He supposed he had acquitted himself well enough although the fact that the most of the board were rather keen to adjourn for dinner might have had some influence in the matter. The young surgeon had continued to ask ever more searching questions until the president had told him bluntly enough that they were satisfied, and that Manning should return the next day for his warrant.
It was with him now, in his jacket pocket, as he drank deeply from his beer and told himself the world was really quite a comfortable place. He was now officially a surgeon’s mate, a respected warrant officer, and one who might progress to surgeon or even physician, should he be spared, and the chance occur.
From Surgeons’ Hall, he had naturally travelled to the hospital where Kate’s father had been taken. There he enquired, but they had no patient by the name of Black. His subsequent walk down Lombard Street revealed two lines of imposing, but anonymous houses. There were local shopkeepers nearby; a simple enquiry might have found the Banks residence, but the idea had been repugnant and he had set off for Pandora that same afternoon. A man could always be traced by his ship, if she had the mind. And if she had not... well, then he was still a surgeon’s mate.
A disturbance as the other end of the room distracted him. Two men had entered, clearly expecting some recognition from the other occupants. He examined them; dressed as sailors, they both carried small canvas bags, and swiftly removed their tarred hats, which he noticed were adorned with red ribbon; not the first he had seen that day on Sheppey, and something he had already wondered about.
"It’s MacCarthy!" one of Manning’s fellow drinkers shouted, and soon men began to file noisily in from the other rooms to make a crowd about the newcomers.
"What news, Mac?" one asked. "An’ where are the others?"
"All in good time, all in good time." The arrival accepted a tankard and drank deep. "It weren’t no easy trip," he said, emerging once more and wiping the froth from his mouth. "At one point we had to run from the press – think of that!"
"It were twenty pounds we gathered together to send yon lot to Portsmouth," one said dryly. "Don’t tell us what a hard time you had of it, just give the news."
MacCarthy smiled, and placed his pot down on the table. "Well if ‘tis news you want, it is news you’ll get, an’ not of the bad kind, neither. Our brothers at Spithead have been victorious." He paused, smiled, and looked about him before continuing. "Admiralty and Parliament have allowed their every wish; it is a total victory, nothing short."
There was silence amongst the group for a moment, then a lithe, swarthy man who was dressed far better than his fellows, spoke.
"We heard the like, Mac, but could not tell if it be true."
"Why then there is proof here." MacCarthy reached into his ditty bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "I have documents from my Lord Howe hi’self. Parliament has agreed, and the King has granted a full and Royal pardon for all. They’ll be no scraggin’, not for none of us."
The men accepted the papers in silence, and passed them amongst themselves.
"Not quite all the demands," one commented.
"As near as makes no difference," MacCarthy countered, clearly pleased with himself. "An’ we certainly won’t be needing to carry on. You should have seen Pompey - there was singing and dancing in the street: bands, cheering, and all ‘good on you’ for Jolly Jack Tar!"
The well-dressed man looked up. "Though it is honest, it is never good to bring bad news," he said; his voice was cold and measured.
"Bad news?" MacCarthy looked genuinely taken aback. "But how could it be so? There’s an answer to our troubles, and a pardon for us all. Our brothers have triumphed; ‘twere our help they needed, an’ now they needs it no more. We can go back to work, go back and serve in a navy that treats us proper."
"Hear him," a voice came from the back. "There speaks an Admiralty man!"
MacCarthy turned in anger. "How say you, were I not a founder an’ delegate in Inflexible? No Admiralty man would have forced the crew of the Fiorenzo to cheer us so!"
"These pardons do not set us free." It was the same educated voice, belonging to the well-dressed seaman.
"How’s that, Dick?"
"They refer to the mutiny at Spithead, and are dated for that. We have been in revolt for longer, and cannot gain protection from such a document." Once more silence descended upon the group as the man continued leafing though the pile of papers that MacCarthy had brought.
"There are concessions here, to be sure, but they do not meet our demands."
"They meet those asked for at Spithead," MacCarthy countered.
"I say they do not meet our demands and I stand by it. There is no guarantee of liberty ashore. No amnesty for our fellows who have run in the past, but have now returned to serve. No changes in the laws of prize money that sees one get a thousand times the share of another. What we have is concessions, but they might only last a year, and do you see how this is dated?" He held a document up and the crowd, many of whom could not read, nodded wisely. "This is but an Order in Council, it has no power, and can be rescinded at will." He turned to MacCarthy and tossed the papers down in front of him. "This is naught but three pennyworth of ballads, bought for twenty pounds."
The group began to murmur ominously, and Manning started to feel uncomfortable. MacCarthy picked up the papers defiantly, sorting them back into order, his eyes downcast and lips tightly pressed.
"’spected more of you, Mac," the muttering was general.
"Came to fool us, did ye?"
"Belike a stretch at the yardarm will put your thoughts in order."
"Aye," another agreed. "And learn you where your loyalty lies."
The
well-dressed seaman stood suddenly, and the noise subsided. "My lads, there might be many of us who take an exit from this matter that will be both boisterous and sudden. But that is not for now, and not for Mac, to be sure." His words were soft but he held each man’s attention as if he were speaking to them alone.
"The Admiralty and the Government have listened to our brothers at Spithead and, just as surely, they will listen to us as we will build on their success." he paused, as if seeking inspiration, before continuing at a steadily increasing tempo. "We will state our case clearly, and not waver. We will shame them with our demands, which are just, fitting and deserved. And we will see those demands granted. We will remind them that British seaman are to be respected. Respected, considered, and not ignored. And we will be victorious!" The speech, made in a rousing crescendo, was enough to inspire and unite the men, and soon all in the room were cheering. Cries of ‘Parker for president’, and ‘good old Dick’ were heard, while men called for more beer and pipes. Manning surveyed the scene with disquiet; a chill had entered his body, and he felt almost too weak to get up and move. Someone began to thump the table, and soon a further chorus of cheers broke out. More seamen entered the room, and the stool opposite him was knocked sideways and turned over. Taking advantage of the diversion, Manning rose suddenly, and squeezed his way through the mob.
Outside the light was failing, but he could see well enough to find the road that should lead to the docks and Pandora. Men were filling the streets and in the distance a rough and ill timed band could be heard playing ‘Britons Strike Home!’ The dockyard was in sight now; he could see the grey edifice that was the tower, but still there were seamen everywhere.
A figure rushed towards him, looking behind as he went. Manning tried to dodge, but could not avoid his bulk cannoning into him. He fell sprawling to the ground, but recovered himself almost immediately. Clambering to his feet he felt for his warrant, which was still safe, however the man was now giving him all his attention. "Hey, where’s your ribbon, matey?"
Manning looked anxiously about as others began to take notice of him, and made to move away.
"He’s an officer, a spy!" The crowd surged towards him ominously, and soon he was breaking into a run. More shouts, cat calls and laughter; he found himself hurtling down the hard and dusty streets, dodging the oncoming revellers. There were yells from behind, and an object was thrown that grazed his shoulder. He quickened his pace still further, aiming for the street that he hoped would take him to Pandora and safety, while all the time his pursuers grew in number and determination.
* * * * *
They had all been moved further forward on the berth deck to give the dockyard workers, and Pandora’s own carpenter’s crew, more space to attend the damaged stern. With the ship operating at anchor watch, and few official duties for the regular seamen, most had fallen into groups that roughly equated to their usual messes. In these they sat and yarned the time away, waiting for the moment when they would be herded back into a true fighting force, and return to their natural element. Until that hour came, each day was an unofficial 'make and mend', where private tasks and general maintenance could be conducted under a brief but welcome relaxation of discipline.
Jenkins was sewing. He had scrounged a piece of cloth from a sailmaker’s mate, and been working on an elaborate embroidery for several weeks. There were no lines to guide him, in fact he had not sketched out the design in any way, but simply started to sew, adding letters and embellishments as he went and as they occurred to him. A girl’s name, 'Rosie' stood out in glorious detail, along with a naïve picture that was clearly a frigate, and a whale that appeared almost as large. The composition itself was slightly awry, but that was of little concern, as the value to Jenkins lay more in the execution than the finished result. Besides, it kept him away from Cribbins, who was always up for a friendly game of Crown and Anchor, and maybe a little money on the side. Jenkins had already lost all he had, and all he would get, and would never gamble again; of that he was absolutely definite.
"I ‘ear’s from a dockyard Jimmie we was lucky to get away with it, comin’ in here," he said, pulling the thick needle through, and adding slightly to the third letter
Flint was also sewing, although in his case it was necessary work; repairing the seam of a round jacket that had ripped. He looked up when Jenkins spoke, but said nothing.
"San Fiorenzo was fired upon, few days back," Jenkins continued.
"We was fired upon," Flint said.
"Ah, but they didn’t hit us, an’ they hit San Fiorenzo."
"Any damage?" Jameson this time. He had been annoying a broken piece of top hamper with his knife, trying to work it into an albatross that was fast becoming a seagull.
"Not particular: cut through the foot rope of her jib boom; no one killed nor nothing."
"No, but a fair few have been," Flint held the jacket up and pulled the seam straight. "And a fair few more will end up dead by the end of it."
"A bunch of them delegates made an inspection of The Old Swan, the place they’re using as an hospital," Jenkins again. "They say a surgeon there got so aggrieved he cut ‘is own throat rather than face them." Jenkins looked up for special emphasis. "They say it was ‘im what done it," he added, pointedly.
"All the hospital ships ‘ave been inspected," Flint continued after a while. "Union and Spanker were fine, but they took exception to goings on in the Grand, and set the steward and the butcher over the side, an’ then ‘ad ‘em flogged."
"Probably deserved it," Jenkins pronounced, after considering the situation.
"Probably did, but it’s not for them to judge." Flint let the jacket drop to his lap. "Ask me the whole thing got out of hand after Spithead. They was reasonable there, asked for what we needed, and stopped as soon as they got it. This lot are from a different kettle."
"Group set upon our Mr Manning," Jameson said. "Chased him back into the yard, they did. Officer of the watch had to call up the marines to restore order."
At that moment the noise of an ill tuned band could be heard from a long way across the water.
"Here he comes again," Jenkins scoffed. "President Parker and his delegates."
"Admiral Parker?" asked Jameson.
"No, Dick Parker," Flint told him. "He’s just a regular Jack, though they say he were an’ officer once upon a time. Now he spends his days travelling about from ship to ship with his portable orchestra and bunch of toadies, Calls hi’self the president of the mutineers, though I don’t know anyone who’s voted for him."
"Well no one would in this ship," Jenkins added quickly. "‘cause we ain’t in on it. No red flag on Pandora an’ not likely to be, not after Scales an’ his lot got what was comin’."
"Think so?" Flint looked at him firmly. "Think we’re all going to stay loyal, when half the North Sea Fleet is up in open riot? We’re going to have to join them, sooner or later. Can’t see Dick Parker and ‘is lot leaving us to chart our own course and not having a word or two to say about it."
"But they can’t force us to mutiny," Jameson’s seagull was now starting to look like a duck, and he pushed it to one side as the conversation warmed.
"They can try."
"What? Come on board Pandora and make us? I’d like to see them." Jenkins was also starting to lose interest in his embroidery. "Captain would never stand for it."
"Captain might not have any choice. There’s not one of them rebel ships that’s smaller than us; most could sink a jackass like Pandora with a single broadside."
"They’d never do that." Jenkins and Jameson spoke together, but Flint was not to be swayed.
"They’ve already fired on us and San Fiorenzo; nothing to stop them doing it again. They been turning officers ashore, an’ marching round Sheerness armed to the teeth, shoutin’ the odds. There’s no one who can stand against them, an if they did, if the military was called up, then there really would be trouble."
"Yeah, but that ain’t going to happen, is it?" Jenkins asked
in a voice eager for reassurance. "They won’t let it get that far."
"Who, the Admiralty, or the mutineers?" As Flint spoke the band stuck up again, although this time it was considerably closer. "Fact is, they’re asking for that what cannot be given; the Admiralty won’t cave in, an’ I can’t see Parker an’ his lot just meekly going back on watch. Talk is of blockading London, or sailing the entire fleet to France or ’olland. Government will send the troops in if either seems likely, then we really will be in the mire."
* * * * *
Soames lay in his cot; his face was puffy and bloated, with dark rims under the eyes, and a pallor of sweat that glistened in the dim light. Manning withdrew his hand from the man’s forehead, and looked back at Mr Doust.
"The temperature is still high, I’m afraid."
Doust nodded. "It is to be expected. He came down with the fever the second day you were away. I found your notes, though I would have been a happier man had they been copied into the proper record."
"I did leave in something of a rush," Manning said lamely.
"You had been treating him for quite a spell, Mr Manning. There is no excuse for such sloppiness." Doust voice was firm, and Manning felt shamed.
Soames began to mumble slightly, but they took no notice as he had made little sense for some while.
"I do feel guilty, sir, for not involving you before." Manning continued. "If any of this is my doing, I will stand for the consequences."
The surgeon shook his head. "No, this is not on your account, laddie; indeed the mercury might well have alleviated the condition to a great extent. I would suggest that our friend here has the final phase of syphilis; what we know as the tertiary stage. It usually comes on with no warning, and is invariably fatal," he waved the glim in front of the man’s open eyes, but the pupils did not react in any way. "There is little that can be done for him now; the mind has gone, and we can expect the body to follow shortly."
Manning nodded quietly. "I should have asked you from the start."