Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “I’ve got ev’ry right,” he snarled and, thrusting Cockburn contemptuously aside, he stalked onto the quarterdeck. All those who were aft froze.

  Hawley strode out, and placed himself squarely in front of Kydd. He jammed on his gold-laced cocked hat at an aggressive angle and glowered at Kydd. “You’ve just ten seconds to save your neck. Make your obedience and—”

  “Sir,” said Kydd, touching his forehead. His gaze locked with Hawley’s, not moving for a full ten seconds. Then he deliberately turned forward. “You men at th’ forebrace bitts,” he threw, in a hard bellow. “Pass the word f’r the delegates.”

  He turned slowly and waited until Coxall hastily made his appearance, Farnall close behind with a dozen men.

  “I lay a complaint. Against this officer.” Kydd’s fierce stare held Hawley rigid. “He means t’ break his solemn word, an’ move against you—us!” There was an awed shuffling behind Kydd. “I demand he be turned out o’ th’ ship, an unsuitable officer.”

  There was hesitation for a fraction of a second: the incredible enormity of what he had done pressed in relentlessly on Kydd, the knowledge that the moment could never be put back into its bottle, but in his exaltation that he had done right he would dare anything.

  “Get y’r gear, sir. One chest is all,” Coxall said firmly. Two seamen moved forward and stood to each side of the officer, much the same as they would for a man to be led to the gratings for lashes.

  “He’s turned ashore—away larb’d cutter, Joe.”

  Shocked, Hawley turned to confront Kydd. “I shall see you dance at the yardarm if it’s the last thing I do on earth.”

  Coxall said evenly, “Now then, sir, no sense in makin’ it worse’n it is.”

  It was like waking yet still being in a dream. Kydd moved about the decks, passing familiar things, trying to bring his mind to reality, yet all the while recalling Hawley in the receding boat, staring back at him.

  Cockburn ignored him. The gunroom was full of tension, and it was impossible to remain, so Kydd slung his hammock forward. Some regarded him with wonder and curiosity, as though he were a condemned man walking among them.

  The master waited until there was no one near and came up to Kydd, removing his hat. “It’s a brave thing ye’re doing, Mr. Kydd, an’ I need to say as how I admires it in you.’ His hands twisted the hat and he finished lamely, “If it weren’t f’r m’ pension coming ver’ soon—which I needs for m’ wife and her sister livin’ with us—I’d be there alongside ye an’ all.”

  In a half-world Kydd waited for word from the delegates—they said they needed to contact the president. He paced up and down, the exaltation ebbing little by little.

  Then word came. “Fr’m Mr. Parker. He wants yer to go aboard Sandwich—an’ help ’im personal, like. C’n we bear a hand wi’ yer dunnage, mate?”

  Parker was waiting for Kydd at the entry port; his handshake was crisp and strong. “A sincere welcome to you, my friend,” he said. “Be so good as to join me at a morsel for dinner—we’ve a lot to discuss.”

  As Kydd sat down at the table, Parker’s eyes glowed. “Tom, it’s very good to see you here. It was my heartfelt prayer.” Kydd beamed. “But might I ask why’re you in the rig of a foremast hand? Where are your breeches, your blue coat?”

  “O’ course, I wanted to show unity with our tars. Tell me, Dick, how goes things?”

  Parker pushed back his plate with a smile, hooked his waistcoat with his thumbs and tilted back his chair. “Success is very near, Tom, be assured of that.” He jumped to his feet. “Come with me.”

  They went out onto the sweeping curve of the admiral’s stern walk. Before them was the entire anchorage of the Nore, dozens of ships of all descriptions, each tranquil and still.

  “There! You see? Every one is owing allegiance to the great cause we have set in train. Each one like a link in a chain binding to the next, so we have an unbroken bond uniting us all. And see them—ships-of-the-line, frigates, even fire ships—all with but one mind.”

  “A rousin’ fine sight,” Kydd agreed. The very presence of the fleet before him was a calm assertion of the rightness of their course, a comforting vision of thousands of like-minded seamen ready to hazard all for what they believed. He lingered, savoring the grand vista of men-o’-war about him, then rejoined Parker inside.

  He was sitting at the admiral’s secretary’s working desk, rummaging and assembling papers. “So! To work, then. Now, what are we going to do with you, Mr. Thomas Kydd? Achilles already has her delegates, and Sandwich is the Parliament ship for the fleet. No, I fancy your talents can command a higher position. You seem to have a practicality rooted in intelligence that I have seen rarely, and a loyal heart. However—” He pondered, then looked up, vexed. “The delegates can be a disputatious and difficult crew at times and, I’m grieved to say, not always motivated by reasons of selflessness. In you I perceive a purity of purpose and a noble soul, and if only it were in my power to raise you high—but this is not possible. We are agreed to be an assembly of equals, and as president I—I can only be the voice of my people. I’m sorry, Tom.”

  “Don’t ye concern y’self f’r me, Dick. I’ll bear a fist with anythin’ I can. Never did want t’ top it the bigwig, anyway. But y’ must find somethin’ I c’n do—y’ must have a clinkin’ great pile o’ things t’ do?’

  Parker’s face eased. “Well, now, since you offer—you’ve no idea how much detail such a venture as ours commands, yet to neglect it is folly, leading inevitably to calamity and ruin. Consider this. We are many thousand, here together. How are we to be fed and watered without there are arrangements of supply? And if we vote on regulations of conduct, how are these to be given out to the fleet, unless they are written out fifty times? Do accept to be my aide at least, I beg, and take these duties from my hands.”

  “Aye,” Kydd said firmly, “I will.” This was something he could do that had clear value. He would find men who could read and write, set them up at their tasks, and he himself could be available to Parker as needed.

  “My very sincere thanks, Tom.” He held out his hand. “I’ll remember this day.”

  The papers were loosely organized: minutes of meetings, rough drafts of proclamations, messages from delegates—it needed pulling together. Kydd put a proposal to Parker: “C’n I find two good men t’ stand by me, an’ a private cabin?’ He would need somewhere his papers would be safe.

  “Of course. The admiral’s dining cabin will not be entertaining this age—the table will serve well, and we may meet around it. I have in mind two who can assist. Both have their letters and are not friends to the bottle.”

  Kydd gathered his resources; he sent his assistants to secure boxes for the papers, then set about sorting and reading them. Parker had a fine, imaginative flair for words, with ringing phrases and legal-sounding threats. It appeared, though, Kydd had to conclude, that his inclination was more toward the florid than the detailed.

  At one point a well-built, fine-looking seaman entered the big cabin. “William Davis, cap’n of Sandwich” he rumbled, with a hard-jawed grin. “Do I see Tom Kydd, come fr’m the Caribbee?”

  “Aye,” Kydd said.

  “Quartermaster’s mate in Artemis as was, goin’ aroun’ the world? Gets turned over inta—what, some sail-o’-the-line?”

  “Trajan.”

  “An’ ends up in a squiddy cutter, saves ’em all after a spell in a boat?”

  “Th’ same.”

  “Then tip us yer daddle, cully,” he said warmly, holding out his hand, “Thoroughbred seaman like you is who I wants now under m’ lee while we’re in shoal waters like this’n.”

  Kydd was grateful for the uncomplicated trust: Davis appeared the very best kind of blue-water seaman and he knew he had a friend in whatever lay ahead. “Tell me, Bill, d’ye know much about Dick Parker?”

  Davis sat down, his seaman’s gear—knife, marline-spike, fox yarns around his neck—incongruous reflected in the deep mahogany of
the table. “Well, it’s true about ’im bein’ an officer, was a reefer in Mediator fer the American war, then shipped in Assurance—but the poor bugger ran up agin Bully Richards who does ’im fer contempt. Court-martial an’ he’s disrated ‘n’ turned afore the mast. Few years later, an’ he gets ill an’ goes ashore. Dunno what ‘appened next, ’cos he ends up in clink fer debt, buys his way out b’ volunteerin’ fer the quota. Don’t know much else—he’s eddicated, you c’n tell that, comes fr’m Exeter, but wife in the north somewheres. But don’t y’ ask ’im too much about that, he’s struck on ’er, very close they is.”

  Kydd worked through the afternoon; at five bells Parker returned. He was buoyed up as he greeted Kydd. “If you’d wish it, there’s room in the boat for another when I make my visits. It’ll be a chance to see something of our achievement.”

  Kydd decided papers and lists, however important, could wait. It was about time he knew something of the greater arena.

  Before, the barge, a thirty-two-footer finished in green, scarlet and gilt and under fourteen oars, was to be seen conveying captains and admirals. Now it was crowded and noisy with oarsmen, two men arguing over a giant Union Flag, a seaman’s band with trumpets, flutes and drums led by the ship’s fiddler, and general revelers. Many wore ribbons threaded through their hats, some the popular band of blue with “Success to the Delegates” in gold. There was no sign of liquor that Kydd could detect.

  Davis took the tiller, Parker and Kydd with him in the sternsheets. “Where to, Dick?” Davis shouted, above the din.

  “Director—then Inflexible, of course, well see.”

  “Yair. Let go, forrard!” he roared at the bowman. “Give way together, m’ lads!”

  The boat surged away from Sandwich and the band struck up immediately. They approached Director: her ship’s company, drawn by the merriment, lined her decks. Some mounted the rigging, and cheers sounded, rolling around the anchorage. Parker rose and waved, more cheers came. He looked down at Kydd, flushed and distracted, but there was no mistaking the elation in his face.

  They went about under Director’s stern, the racket of the band echoing back from the formidable lines of the 64, then shaped course for Inflexible. As they approached the big ship-of-the-line, there was the flat thud of a gun and smoke eddied away from the fo’c’sle.

  “A salute to th’ president,” said Kydd.

  Parker acknowledged him with a smile. “The Inflexibles are our most ardent,” he shouted, in Kydd’s ear.

  Again the decks were lined, and cheers rang out. When Parker rose, this time he shook both fists in the air, bringing a storm of raucous applause. He repeated his success at the next ship, the frigate Proserpine, which promptly erupted in volleys of cheers. “I believe this calls for a libation of sorts,” Parker said happily. “Bear up for the dockyard steps, Bill.”

  Just as soon as the boat came alongside, the men scrambled ashore and formed up into a parade, as the band took up a rowdy thumping. The huge flag was proudly held high and taken to the front of the procession.

  “Do come with me, Tom. My place is at the fore, and you should share the honors.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode up to the head and bowed to the assembling crowd. Kydd followed, and eased into line behind Parker, who turned and pulled him abreast of himself.

  “Delegates, advance!” shouted Parker. The drums thudded twice rapidly, and the colorful procession stepped off gaily to the tune of “Rule Britannia.” It attracted a noisy, adoring crowd that brought apprentices running, women leaving their work and small boys capering alongside.

  As the column swung away down the road, Parker waved affably at the spectators, bowing to some, blowing kisses at the ladies. At first Kydd could only manage a stiff wave, but after a laughing girl threw rose blossoms over him, he joined in with gusto.

  Around the corner and through Red Barrier Gate. Thumping lustily, the band brought the first of the Blue Town people running. Cries of “Huzzah to the delegates—and be damned to Billy Pitt!” were heard. Beribboned sailors already ashore added to the uproar.

  A larger crowd waited at a timbered building—a tavern with a sign hanging, the Chequers. The band played a hurried final flourish and spilled inside. “With me, Tom,” Parker called. Kydd found himself at a dark-stained table in the smoky interior.

  Davis arrived, his large frame wedging in the high-backed seat. “Tom, me ol’ cock, what c’n I get you?”

  Parker intervened. “Kydd’s with me, Bill, and I’ll be having my usual. Tom?”

  “Oh, a stout pint o’ the right sort’ll do,” replied Kydd, happily. Parker’s tipple turned out to be dog’s nose, the splicings being a liberal dash of gin in the beer. The blue haze thickened in the tavern in due proportion to the noise and soon it was a merry throng that celebrated together.

  A seaman bawled for attention near the door. “Dick Parker, ahoooy!”

  Parker lurched to his feet. “Who wants him?” he returned loudly.

  “Why, yer speechifyin’—when are yer comin”, Admiral?”

  “I’ve said not t’ call me that,” Parker grumbled.

  “Aye-aye, Yer Majesty.”

  In front of the Chequers a space had been cleared and several boxes pushed together formed a stage, already bedecked with flags and boughs of greenery. A few chairs were in precarious position atop the boxes.

  A roar went up when Parker appeared. He stood to acknowledge the cheers, then jammed his beaver hat at a rakish angle and mounted the stage. Beaming, he held up his hands for silence, and the crowd subsided, while more ran up to catch the occasion.

  “Friends! Brothers!” he began, his face flushed. “How dare their lordships presume to try the patience of the British tar, to deny him his rights, to ignore his courage and resource? I will tell you something that even these false ministers, these traitors, cannot conceive of—the true value of a British seaman!” He paused, and looked into the crowd. “Ah, there he is!” he cried. “Brother Tom Kydd, new-won to the cause. Come up here beside me, Tom!”

  There was a warm roar of welcome. “Tom here was a master’s mate in Achilles, but that didn’t stop him standing for what he believed. The first lieutenant hales him to the quarterdeck and calls him to account—but Tom Kydd here, he tells him to sling his hook! So it’s Heave-ho Hawley in the boat and turned ashore, mates, all because Tom didn’t flinch when the time came. How can m’ lords of the Admiralty prevail when we’ve got the likes of him in with us? Let’s hear it for Brother Kydd, friends!”

  CHAPTER 8

  At dawn the soft gray coastline of England appeared far ahead. After the tedium of a Baltic convoy, complicated by an outbreak of ship fever in the fo’c’sle, it was a welcome sight. But Renzi had mixed feelings: it was now just a few months before his term of exile was over. Then he must make his peace with his family, and resume his life on the land. It would be hard to leave the sea. The gentle lift and surge of a deck had its own compelling sensuality and the life perspective to be gained from numberless foreign horizons was precious—but there was no going back. Before the year was out it would be finished, all over.

  As he paced back along the gangway, a depression settled, one that was never far away these days. There would be no interesting exotic finale to his last months. They were to spend a couple of days in Sheerness, repair and victual, then Glorious was to rejoin the North Sea fleet in Yarmouth, resuming its watch over the Dutch in the Texel, a powerful fleet now loyal to the French and which, sooner or later, would have to be dealt with.

  The low coastline ahead hardened to a deep blue, then acquired features: dark splotches, pale blurs. There was sail in all directions, converging to the south, a river of commerce, for here was the entrance to the Thames and the port of London.

  Renzi sighed heavily, and started pacing the other way. Glorious was not a happy ship. The captain was unimaginative and set in his ways, remote from his men, and the first lieutenant was a bully. The ship’s company was a collection of individuals, not a t
eam, and petty tyrannies flourished.

  They joined the flow of vessels into the Thames, the master watchful and alert for the lookouts’ hail as another buoy was sighted. Then the dark forest of masts that was the Great Nore came into sight, reassuring in its powerful presence at the entrance to the capital.

  Signals fluttered up from Glorious’s quarterdeck. The mass of fifty-four ships of the Baltic Trade astern were now released and broke into an undignified straggle as they jockeyed for position for the beat upriver to the docks.

  “Haaaands to moor ship!”

  They closed with the fleet. Saluting guns were loaded, but as Sandwich was not flying her admiral’s flag they were not needed. Glorious glided in, her anchors tumbled down to the muddy seabed, her sails were furled and she prepared for storing.

  Finished with the veering crew at the hatchway, Renzi regained the deck to find the officer-of-the-watch, but his curiosity was taken by three boats making for Glorious. A giant Union Flag was in one, and from another what sounded like “Rule Britannia” was being pounded out by a scratch band.

  “Hail them, if you please,” ordered Murray, the officer-of-the-watch. Aboard Glorious, sailors crowded to the deck edge, astonished by the display. The lead boat shaped course to come alongside; it was then plain there were no officers aboard.

  “Damme an’ I know what’s afoot, m’lads,” Renzi heard the flabbergasted boatswain say.

  “Lay off, the boat!” warned Murray, sensing something wrong. The boat took no notice and hooked on at the main-chains. Seamen nimbly mounted Glorious’s side.

  “What in God’s name—”

  The lead seaman, a bulky sailor with cutlass and two pistols, came easily over the bulwarks; another two were not far behind. Murray stalked down from the quarterdeck. “Did you not hear my order? Why the devil did you—”

  Bringing a paper out of his waistcoat, the first seaman announced, “Sir, I’m commanded by th’ president of the delegates of th’ whole fleet of His Majesty’s navy in the river Medway and the buoy of the Nore ter give you this’n.”