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 toward the scene, curious to see the notorious fleet in mutiny, but kept their distance.
Reluctantly, 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 main-chains, 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 sail 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 scrollwork 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 manrope 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 odors 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 cutlass 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 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 bristled. 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 pretense 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 5ninety-seven an able seaman gets less than a common plowman. 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 victualers, 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.
“Now, Tom, whatever you think, this is the only logical reason for it being everywhere at the same time, and never being in danger of prosecution. My friend, if you can find another explanation that fits every fact—any other at all—I’d be thankful to hear it.”
Kydd looked away. It fitted the facts only too well, and he’d heard rumors of a conspiracy at the top. Was Fox right, that Pitt himself was as corrupt as any, that …
“Ah, well, I have t’ say, I’ve never really thought about it before, er, Dick. Ye’ll pardon m’ straight talkin’, but c’n you tell me why you want t’ be the one to—to—”
Parker stood up abruptly. “Humanity, Tom, common humanity. How can I stand by and see my fellow creatures used so cruelly, to see them in their simple ways oppressed by these bloodsuckers, their dearly won means torn from them, degraded to less than beasts of the field?” He turned to Kydd, his eyes gleaming. “I have advantages in education and experience of the quarterdeck, and they have done me the honor of electing me their representative—I will not betray their trust.”
Moving like a cat, he sat down and faced Kydd again with the s
ame intense gaze. “Those brave men at Spithead, they gave the example, showed what can be done—we cannot let them down, Tom! They saw the injustices, and stood bravely against them. How can we let them stand alone? Are we so craven that we stand aside and take what others win by peril of their necks?”
“You ask ’em to go t’ the yardarm—”
“No!” Parker said emphatically. “I do not! Consider—the fleet at Spithead, Plymouth and now the Nore—all are now united, resolute. Does the Admiralty hang the whole fleet? Does it cause the army to march against the navy? Of course not. As long as we stand united we are untouched, preserved. If we hang back—but we did not, we kept the faith. And besides …” he left the words dangling, relishing the effect “… we now have word from Spithead—we have an offer. And it is for a full and complete Royal Pardon after we have had our grievances addressed.”
It was incredible: the mutiny had won—or was winning—an unprecedented concession that recognized …
“Now is the time! It is the one and only chance we will ever have of achieving anything! If we miss this chance …” His forehead was beaded with sweat. “At Spithead they know only their daily rations and liberty. They strive for more bread in port instead of flour; more liberty ashore; vegetables with their meat—this is fine, but we can see further. We know of the rats gnawing at the vitals of the navy, and we’re going to expose them, force them into the daylight. We have to be sure the whole world sees them for what they are and howl for their extermination.”
Kydd was excited, appalled and exhilarated by turns. It all made sense, and here was one who was prepared to risk his very life for the sake of the men, his shipmates. And, above all, had the intelligence and resolve to do something about it. “And if th’ French sail?”
“Ah, you see, they won’t. At Spithead it was voted that, no matter what, if the French moved against England, then the fleet will instantly return to duty and sail against the enemy. They know this, so at this moment they lie in their harbors, unmoved.”
Kydd took a deep breath. “Then ye’re still loyal—t’ King ‘n’ country, I mean.”
“We are, Tom,” Parker said seriously. “What could be more loyal than ridding His Majesty of such base villains—these scum?”
He rose unexpectedly and crossed to a cabinet. “I want you to drink a toast with me, Tom.” He busied himself pouring. “To success for our brave tars—standing against the whole world!”
Kydd took the glass suspiciously. “Don’t worry, this is not the admiral’s, it’s common grog only,” Parker said, with a smile.
“Aye. Well, here’s t’ our brave Jack Tars!” Kydd drank heartily.
Parker moved to a chair to one side. “Tom. Let me be straight with you,” he began. “Your common foremast jack is not best placed to see the whole of matters. He is brave and honest, but without guile. His nature makes him the prey of others, he has not the penetration to see he is being practiced upon. What I am saying is that there are many who do not see the urgency, the dire necessity of our actions at this time, and hesitate. This is a folly, and puts at great hazard all those who have seen their duty to their shipmates and acted.”
He refilled Kydd’s glass. “We need men to declare their devotion to their shipmates, to end their hesitation, men that are fine and strong, men when others look upon to set them a course to steer. Tom, we need you to stand with us. To give us your—”
“No!” Kydd slammed down his glass, suddenly icy cold. “Parker, I believe in what ye’re doing, but this is not th’ way—it can’t be!” He turned to go, flinging open the door.
“Kydd!” called Parker from behind him. “Just think on this. If you really care about your men, do something, but otherwise go away—and then try to live with yourself.”
Kydd left, Parker’s words echoing in his ears, again confronting the dank, crowded decks, the misery in the faces of the men, the air of hopelessness and despair.
Only one thing kept hammering at his senses: he could no longer walk away.
“You’ve been aboard Sandwich,” said Cockburn flatly. “You’re not such a fool, Tom, that you don’t know the penalty for treasonous association, consorting with mutineers. Just for the sake of curiosity, you’d let it be seen …” Something in Kydd’s face made Cockburn tail off.
“I know what I did.”
Kydd left the gunroom and moodily made the upper deck. His mind was in a spin of indecision as he paced along slowly. Abreast the mainmast he stopped. A young sailor was working by the side of the immense complexity of ropes belayed to their pins that girdled the mast. Spread out on a canvas in front of him were blocks and yarns, fid and knife.
Seeing Kydd stop, he scrambled to his feet. “Oh, Mr. Kydd, I’m ter strap th’ spanker sheet block ’ere fer the cap’n o’ the mizzentop.”
“Carry on, younker. But what’s this I see? You mean t’ work a common short splice, an’ it’s t’ be seen b’ the quarterdeck?” Kydd hid a grin at the lad’s worried look. “Well, sure enough, we usually use a short splice, an’ for our sheet block we turn the tail to a selvagee—but this is upon the quarterdeck, an’ Achilles is a crack man-o’-war. No, lad, we doesn’t use an ugly short splice. Instead we graft the rope, make it fine ‘n’ smooth around the block, then other ships go green ‘cos we’ve got such a prime crew who know their deep-water seamanship.”
“But, Mr. Kydd, please, I don’t know yer grafting.”
“It’s easy enough—look, I’ll show ye.” Kydd picked up the strap and shook the strands free, then intertwined and brought them together, very tightly. “Now work a stopper each side, if y’ please.” The lad eagerly complied. “Now we c’n open out y’ strands, and make some knittles—just like as if y’ was doin’ some pointin’.” Kydd’s strong fingers plying the knife made short work of producing a splay of fine lines above and below the join. His coat constricted his movements so he took it off and threw it over the bitts. “An’ now y’r ready to graft. Lay half y’ knittles on the upper part …”
It was calming to the soul, this simple exercise of his sea skills: it helped to bring perspective and focus to his horizons—and, above all, a deep satisfaction. “An’ mark well, we snake our turns at the seizing—both ends o’ course.” It wasn’t such a bad job, even though it was now a long time since he had last strapped a block. He watched the lad admiring the smooth continuity of the rope lying in the score of the block and hid a grin at the thought of the captain of the mizzentop’s reaction when he went to check the young sailor’s work.
He put his coat back on and resumed his pace, but did not get far. A midshipman pulled at his sleeve and beckoned furtively, motioning him over to a quiet part of the deck. “What is it, y’ scrub?” he growled.
“Psst—Mr. Hawley passes the word, he wants to see all officers an’ warrant officers in the cap‘n’s cabin,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Please don’t shout, Mr. Kydd. It’s to be secret, like.”
“I’ve called you here for reasons you no doubt can guess,” Hawley whispered. The sentry had been moved forward and the quarter-deck above cleared with a ruse; there was little chance of being overheard.
“This despicable mutiny has gone on for long enough. I had hoped the mutineers would by now have turned to fighting among themselves—they usually do, the blaggardly villains. No, this is too well organized. We must do something.
There was a murmur of noncommittal grunts. Kydd felt his color rising.
“What do you suggest?” Binney said carefully.
Hawley took out a lace handkerchief and sniffed. “The ship is unharmed—so far,” he said. “I don’t propose that she be left in the charge of that drunken crew for longer than I can help.” He leaned forward. “I’m setting up communication with the shore. This will enable us to plan a move against the knaves with the aid of the army garrison—”
“Sir!” Kydd interrupted, his voice thick with anger. “You gave your word!”
“I’ll thank
you, sir, to keep your voice down, dammit!” Hawley hissed. “As to my word, do you believe it counts when pledged to mutineers—felons condemned by their own acts?”
“You gave y’r word not to move against them while y’ had freedom of th’ ship,” Kydd repeated dully.
“I choose to ignore the implication in view of your—background, Mr. Kydd. Have a care for your future, sir.”
Kydd stared at the deck, cold rage only just under control.
“I shall continue. When I get word from the shore that the soldiers are prepared, we take steps to secure their entry to the vessel, probably by night through the stern gallery. Now, each of you will be given tasks that are designed to distract the—” He stopped with a frown. “Good God, Mr. Kydd, what is it now?”
Breathing raggedly, Kydd blundered out of the cabin. He stormed out on to the main deck, feeling the wary eyes of seamen on him. A realization rose in his gorge, choking and blinding. If he was going to do something that meant anything for his shipmates—and be able to live with himself later—then it was not going to be by throwing in his lot with those who wanted to turn the sky black with the corpses of his friends.
Kydd wheeled and marched off forward, scattering men in his wake. At the starboard bay, he stopped before the startled committee, panting with emotion. “M’ friends! I’m in wi’ ye. What d’ y’ like met’ do?”
* * *
He emerged shortly from the fore-hatch, defiant and watchful. By now the news was around the ship and he knew eyes everywhere would be on him. The seamen seemed to take it all in their stride, grinning and waving at him. He went farther aft. The master was by the mizzenmast, hands on hips, staring down at him. He reached the gangways and passed by the boat spaces. Binney was on the opposite gangway and caught sight of him; he turned, hurried aft and disappeared.
He reached the quarterdeck but Cockburn pushed in front of him, barring his way. “The quarterdeck is not the place for you any more, Kydd,” he said stiffly.
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