Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  Farnall’s face grew tight, but he sat down. Boddy stood up and hurried over to Kydd, taking him by the elbow and leaving the bay. “Tom, it’ll do yez no good to get up Farnall’s nose. He’s a delegate now, an’ he’s got friends.”

  They emerged together on deck—the spring sunshine out of keeping with the dire events taking place. Kydd glanced up wistfully at the innocent blue sky. “What has you planned f’r Achilles, Will?” he asked.

  Boddy paused. “Fer an answer, ye needs ter know what’s happened altogether, like.” He pursed his lips. “We feels they has a right steer on things in Spithead, Tom. They’s standin’ f’r hard things that should’ve bin done an age back. What we’re doin’ is giving ’em our backin’, ’cos they need it. What we done is, we have two delegates f’r each ship, an’ a committee o’ twelve. We decides things b’ votes an’ that, Farnall knows all about this. An’ we hold wi’ discipline, Tom. We won’t have any as is half slued around the decks, not when we’re so close t’ the wind like this’n.”

  “Who’s y’r delegates?’ Kydd asked.

  “Coxall ‘n’ Farnall, but we got some good men in th’ committee. We already have rules o’ conduct: no liquor aboard wi’out it’s declared, respects to officers, ship is kept ready f’r sea—an’ this is because we swear ’ut if the Mongseers sail on England, we’re ready ter do our dooty.”

  Kydd looked squarely at Boddy “Will, who’s it behind this all—who organized it?” If there was the barest whiff of French treachery he would have all his doubts resolved, his duty clear.

  “Why, we’re follering Spithead, is all, nothin’ more.”

  “No Frenchies at the bottom of it, a-tall?”

  “No, mate. If they noo that the whole navy of Great Britain was hook down an’ goin’ nowhere, they’d soon be crowdin’ sail for England. They ain’t, so there’s no plot. They don’t even know.”

  “But there’s someone takin’ charge?”

  “O’ course—someone has ter. Sandwich, she’s the Parlyment ship, the committee o’ the fleet meets there. We has a president o’ the delegates, name o’ Dick Parker. We’ll see ’im soon, wouldn’t wonder.” Boddy looked shrewdly at Kydd. “Look, Tom, it’s started, cuffin, an’ mark my words, we’re goin’ to stand fast. Now why doesn’t ye come in wi’ us? There’s many a soul looks up ter you, would take—”

  Kydd’s harsh reply stilled Boddy’s words, but the latter’s eyes held reproach, sadness, which touched Kydd. Boddy glanced at him once, then turned and went below.

  Kydd paced restlessly. If the likes of Will Boddy had seen it necessary to hazard their lives to stand for what they believed needed righting …

  It had to be admitted, the mutiny had been conducted on the strictest lines. The committee was even preparing articles of conduct for preserving good order and naval discipline in the face of the absence of authority, an amazing thing, given the circumstances. But most astonishing was the mere fact that the complexity of daily life—the taking aboard of stores to meet the needs of seven hundred men, the deployment of skilled hands to maintain the miles of cordage and sea-racked timbers, the scaling of cannon bores—was continued as before.

  The noon meal was a cheerless affair in the gunroom; the midshipmen were subdued, the senior hands edgy, Cockburn introspective. It was made more so by the waves of jollity gusting from the sailors on the gundeck relishing being in relaxed discipline.

  Glad to return on deck and get away from Cockburn’s moodiness, Kydd kept out of the way of the sailors at the gangway waiting to board the boats to take them ashore. Liberty tickets were being issued on a generous scale. These were of the usual form to protect them from the press-gang and prove them not deserters, but they were signed by a delegate, not an officer.

  A shout from the waist caught Kydd’s attention. Someone called out, “An’ if I’m not wrong that longboat comin’ under our stern now is ’imself come t’ visit.”

  Men ran to the ship’s side to catch a glimpse of the president. The boat curved widely, the men at the oars pulling lustily in a play of enthusiasm. In the sternsheets was a dark-featured man sitting bolt upright, looking neither to left nor right; he did not acknowledge the surging cheers.

  The boat hooked on, and the passenger, wearing a stylish beaver hat and a blue coat with half-boots, came down the boat. He clambered up the side, and there was a scramble among the men at the top, a cry of “Side!” A hurrying boatswain’s mate arrived and, with appropriate ceremony, President of the Delegates Richard Parker was piped aboard HMS Achilles. Kydd held back at the parody, but was drawn in fascination to the scene.

  Parker carried himself well and looked around with studied composure, his dark eyes intelligent and expressive. He doffed his hat to Hawley, who had come on deck but did not speak with him; he went forward, and stood on the fore gratings, folding his arms, waiting for the men to come to him.

  Sailors gathered around, their talking dying away. “Brother Tars,” he began, fixing with his eyes first one man, then another. “Your waiting is over. Your long wait for justice, rights and true respect—is over.” His voice was educated, assured and direct, but somewhat thin against the breeze and shipboard noises. “We have joined our brothers in Spithead, as they asked us, and even while we celebrate, there are dispatched our representatives to Yarmouth, to the North Sea squadron, to beseech them also to join us. When they do, with Plymouth now aroused, the entire navy of Great Britain will be arisen in our cause.”

  Kydd listened, unwilling to leave. The North Sea squadron! This was news indeed: the last battle squadron left to Britain, the one strategically sited to confront the Dutch and the entrance to the Baltic, if it mutinied then …

  “This will make His Majesty’s perverse ministers sit up. It will show that we are steadfast, we mean to win entire recognition of our grievances—and as long as we stand together and united, we cannot fail.” Parker’s eyes shone, as though he was personally touched by the moment.

  Scattered cheers rose up, but there were as many troubled and uncertain faces.

  “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 clamor 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 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’-w
ar 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 around the corner in a wash of raucous sound, scattering urchins and drawing crowds. It headed toward 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 roistering, 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 onto 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 farther—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 coattails. 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 ol’ 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 insure 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 around 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, bluffbowed 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 outlying 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.