Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “Er, how went it, William?” Dundas could be forgiven the familiarity.

  “Crushed. Obliteration. We shall see little of Fox and the opposition from now forward.”

  “The votes?”

  “I didn’t stay for the division.” Pitt seemed energized by the recent clash, and picked up his papers. “This mutiny. We must act. That is why I have called you to this place. Developments. My lord?”

  Spencer took up the thread. “Er, we received an impertinent demand from the chief mutineer that my own good self—and my board!—should take carriage for Sheerness to wait on them, for God’s sake. They have ceased speaking through their admiral and say they will not listen unless they hear it from us.”

  “That’s as may be, sir. I would have thought it more to the point that not a great deal above a dozen miles from this room we have anchored a ship-of-the-line of five dozen guns flying the red flag with perfect impunity.” He glanced at Grey and went on acidly, “And how boatloads of armed mutineers were able to pull past the hottest fire from Tilbury fort to get at these upstream ships without a scratch escapes me. The noise of the guns alone caused panic and terror in east London, last seen under De Ruyter.”

  The general glowered. Pitt ignored him and pressed on: “No, gentlemen, these are desperate men. They’re also clever. They insure their force is undiminished by deploying force to prevent the loyalists regaining control. They show no desire for reconciliation and are no doubt ready to do anything.”

  Pitt broke off to cough wretchedly into a handkerchief. The table waited watchfully while he gulped some port, then resumed hoarsely, “And we got ominous news this morning. Every available Thames pilot has been rounded up and is being held prisoner by the mutineers! I need not remind the landlubbers among us that the shoals of the estuary are among the worst in the civilized world—the implications of this move are therefore quite clear: the mutineers are holding their ships in readiness to deliver them up across the Channel to the Netherlands perhaps, or even France.”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” Spencer said, aghast.

  Pitt spared him a withering look and continued: “I have summoned the House to an all-night sitting this night—following our meeting,” he added significantly. “I’m exercised as to what I shall tell them …”

  Unexpectedly, it was Grey who spoke first. “Harrumph. May I take it, sir, that we must end this farce at once? Precipitate, right? Then you’ve only the one choice. Close with the buggers and finish ’em now, and be damned to the caterwauling of the press.”

  “And just what is it you propose, General?” Pitt said silkily.

  “Like this.” He would get a fair hearing—his first combat was with Wolfe on the plains above Quebec nearly forty years before. “We act with resolution and dispatch. We have infantry at Gravesend, reinforced by artillery from Woolwich. They combine with the Tilbury artillery across the water to cover the approaches to London. The Warwicks are at Chelmsford, they move down to mass around the crossing at Purfleet. I can do more, but I need m’ adjutant and maps. Now, sir, how reliable is your North Sea fleet? Hey?”

  “Admiral Duncan sees no reason to doubt other than they will do their duty when called upon, sir,” said Spencer, frostily.

  “Then this is what happens. You an’ your board take coach to Sheerness. Let ’em know you’re coming, calm ’em down. When you’re there talkin’ your North Sea ships sweep in from seaward an’ take ’em, while I get together what troops I can an’ go in from the land. Hey?”

  Spencer wiped his forehead. “Are you seriously proposing that we resolve this matter in a public battle between our own ships right outside our own capital?”

  “I do! If necessary. They, of course, may well desire to capitulate on seein’ our force.”

  Pitt leaned forward. “I like it. Any objections?” He looked about the table.

  “Sir, if you’ll forgive—”

  “Mr. Windham?”

  “The country at large may well laud your decisive action. But do you not feel that the more, er, clamorous of the radicals may object?”

  “Pah! The saintly and ancient Tom Paine himself is in France this minute, lecturing the Jacobins on the conduct of their revolution, he’s a broken reed. Godwin is lying low for the sake of his wife, Mary Wollstonecraft, Cobbett is safely away in America writing some damn-awful paper called the Porcupine or some such—and Fox, well, after today he’s vowed to leave the Commons forever, if we can believe it.

  “But I take your point. Let’s leave it like this. We stay our hand, offer them their pardon. If they then accept and return to duty, well and good. If not, they suffer the full consequence of their acts.

  “Very well! General, please begin your deployments without delay. This has to end for them.”

  “How do I appear, my friend? Fit for the great day, in full feather?” Parker had taken extra care with his appearance, laying aside his cherished beaver hat in favor of a pristine seaman’s round hat, his customary boots polished and smart.

  “It’ll do, Dick,” Kydd said.

  “My greatest day, in truth,” Parker said, face aglow. He continued, as if to himself, “It will be a hard struggle. The hardest will be not to lose countenance before the person of the First Lord, and jeopardize the quality of the negotiations.”

  “You won’t—he it will be who has the harder, o’ course. President o’ the delegates is a high enough office.”

  Parker pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat. “I do believe that our time is come. Be so good as to advise the delegates and muster the boat’s crew.”

  Kydd had also taken care with his appearance. It would definitely be the first and, very probably, the last time that he would catch sight of the ultimate head of the navy, the legendary First Lord of the Admiralty.

  “They shall have constituted their board by now,” Parker said, in the boat. The other delegates were subdued, but defiantly wore their red ribbons. Many more followed in boats behind, determined to be present at the historic occasion. They stepped out on the wharf, marched resolutely to the commissioner’s residence, and assembled in the foreyard. The vast flag of Admiralty, only flown by the Lord High Admiral of England, floated from the central staff of the mansion.

  Kydd held his breath. This was the moment for which they had put themselves in the shadow of the noose.

  With every eye on him, Parker walked up to the black door and knocked. It was immediately opened by Admiral Buckner.

  “Sir,” Parker said, with the utmost gravity, “I understand that the First Lord is present within.”

  “He is.” There was tension in Buckner’s voice.

  “And the board?”

  “They are.” Something about Buckner’s manner made Kydd uneasy.

  “We should like to know if these are the same lords who have been at Portsmouth.”

  “They are.”

  Parker stepped back a pace. “Then, sir, we respectfully request their lordships to come aboard the Sandwich and settle the business.”

  There was a rustle of anticipation in the delegates behind him. They would finally get a glimpse of the shadowy figures with whom they had been locked in a clash of wills, but there was not a single movement.

  “Sir?” prodded Parker.

  Buckner stood irresolute. He said something in a voice so low it was inaudible.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I said, their lordships will not do that.”

  “Will not do that? Please be clear, sir.”

  “Er, excuse me.” Buckner withdrew into the house. Rumbling of speech could be heard, then he reemerged. “His lordship insists he will see you only for the purpose of declaring that you accept the King’s Pardon and return to duty.”

  Parker drew a deep breath. “Then pray sir, how will our grievances be taken under consideration, if the First Lord will not hear them?”

  Again Buckner wavered. “I—please, pardon.” He again disappeared inside.

  The seaman next to K
ydd shifted his position and muttered, “Shy bastard, ’is lordship, don’t want t’ be seen talkin’ to our faces.”

  Buckner came out, visibly agitated. “Lord Spencer reminds you that all of your grievances have been redressed. No discussion can possibly take place with their lordships.”

  “Sir, you are a man of sense. This is no way to conduct negotiations between—”

  “If you accept His Majesty’s most gracious pardon you will be allowed to declare it personally to their lordships. Their lordships will then pronounce to you the pardon in the King’s name.”

  “Then—”

  Buckner straightened his stoop and looked Parker directly in the eye. “That is all.”

  For a long moment Parker stared doggedly ahead, then wheeled around and pushed his way through the crowd. “Wh-where ’re we going, Dick?” someone asked.

  “To perdition, shipmate!” he replied hoarsely.

  Kydd hurried to keep up. “Th’ Chequers?”

  “Sandwich!”

  The admiral’s Great Cabin filled rapidly. Anyone not a delegate was unceremoniously ejected. “Gangway! Clear th’ house, y’ lubbers.” Blake’s husky bellow was unmistakable.

  “They won’t listen, Tom,” Parker said, in stricken tones, as they pushed their way to the front. “They really don’t want to talk to us.”

  Kydd was alarmed by Parker’s ashen pallor. Whatever he had seen in Buckner’s face had seriously unmanned him. “Do take a roun’ turn, Dick. Y’r people are relyin’ on you,” he said urgently. “Look, we’ve just the same force now we always had. Nothing’s changed.” He tried desperately to reach him. “An’ their precious lordships, did they come t’ Sheerness jus’ to tell us of the pardon? They’re expectin’ a fight of it.”

  “The pardon? Perhaps we should, after all, accept it.”

  “Dick!” said Kydd, in quiet anguish. “Don’t fail us now. We have them here, they’re waitin’ for us. F’r Christ’s sake, stay by us!”

  “What’s goin’ on?” came a catcall. “Why aren’t we layin’ it into ’em?”

  “Dick!” Kydd could say no more.

  Davis loudly called the meeting to order as Parker made a visible effort to compose himself. Shortly into the heated debate that followed Parker was summoned away. He returned promptly, carrying a bundle of papers. “Here it is, brothers. This, then, is the position their lordships hold. It was given to me by our old captain himself.”

  He stood behind his chair and held up a document. He broke the seal, read the contents, but did not speak. He swayed, and when he looked up his face held a deep anguish.

  “Well, what’d it say?” came a call.

  “Er, matters have reached a certain, shall we say, impasse.” Parker looked again at the document as if needing confirmation of grave news.

  “Blast yer eyes, then give us a look,” Blake said, reaching across.

  “No,” said Parker oddly, holding the paper protectively to his chest.

  “What does it say, Dick?” Kydd asked firmly. The meeting would have to know sooner or later.

  “It says—it tries to drive a wedge into our unity, to appeal—”

  “What does it say, fer God’s sake?”

  Parker sat down heavily, holding the paper close. “It says—it says that all those who wish to accept the King’s Pardon must do so before noon tomorrow. After that time, their lordships will strike their flag and return to London, leaving those still in a state of mutiny to their fate.”

  Some sat stunned, others looked visibly relieved, more still were angry and disbelieving. “Those scurvy shabs!” Hulme spat contemptuously. “Why don’t they give us the same as they served out to ’em at Spithead? What’s wrong wi’ we that they won’t talk man t’ man like they did before?”

  A rumble of agreement turned into a roar. “Shipmates! Brothers!” Parker tried to get their attention, but his voice was drowned in the fury Eventually he got a hearing. “It’s my duty to tell you, much as it pains me—yet I must say it as I see it—it is my unhappy conclusion that their lordships have no intention whatsoever of negotiating with us. For whatever reason, they are turning their backs on us and our complaints. I do not understand why,” he added heavily. “They are obstinate and heedless of our cries, and I fear are implacable. Therefore it is my sad duty to recommend that we accept the pardon and—and give up our venture.”

  “You what?” shouted Blake. “Give it away! Nothin’s changed. C’n I remind our president, we still hold all the cards! We’re a fleet o’ near five hundred guns—no one’s goin’ to go up against us. We calls their bluff, mates.”

  Parker rummaged around and slapped a thick wedge of papers. “These are printed copies of the pardon for distribution around the fleet. What will the common sailors think? That this is their chance, and you will deny them?”

  Hulme leaned over. “They don’t have ter know,” he snarled.

  “Yeah,” said Blake. “We’s the true elected delegates, we speak fer them, an’ we decides what ter do. What are we about, th’t we do their fuckin’ lordships’ work for ’em? Burn the lot, I say, an’ stand steadfast!”

  Davis intervened: “Y’ know what this means—the noos is goin’ ter get out anyway, an’ that says there’s goin’ to be them what are now ready t’ give it in. What’ll we do then, half our strength goes?”

  “We p’suades ’em ter stay,” said Blake, with a grim smile.

  A vote was taken, but too late in the evening to bear to their lordships. A substantial majority was for continuing with their action. They broke up noisily and the Parliament of delegates returned to their ships, leaving Parker, Kydd and Davis alone in the Great Cabin.

  “What d’ we do, then?” Davis asked, reflecting the doubts of those who had voted against continuing the action. “Ask pardon?”

  Parker’s gray face lifted. “I was elected by the men to be their president. You may seek pardon, that is your decision. For myself, I will do my duty by my shipmates, as they trusted me to do, and convey their determinations to the Admiralty as needed.”

  Cast down after the exaltation of the morning, Parker’s misery was intense, Kydd realized, but the nobility of character that had impelled him originally was still as strong as ever.

  “No, mate,” Davis said. “I’ll be stayin’.”

  Kydd was too. “If ye’re standin’by the men, Dick, then what kind o’ gullion is it wants t’ skin out now? I’ll be with ye.”

  The day of the ultimatum was raw and gray. Kydd had spent a hard, sleepless night, the noises of the old ship around him now sounding ominous. He pulled on oilskins and ventured to the upper decks. To his surprise, he saw a party of seamen charging the guns, loading and running them out, then covering their gunlocks with a lead apron.

  “Cheerly, lads, don’t wan’ t’ make mistakes, now do we?” It was Hulme. What crack-brained scheme was this?

  “What’s this’n, John?” Kydd asked carefully. The rain pattered insistently on his oilskins.

  Huhne looked at him. “Tell me, Kydd, honest now. Are you loyal? We all is.”

  Taken aback, Kydd could only reply, “As much as th’ next, I reckon.”

  “Stan’ clear, then, cully.”

  Sandwich snubbed sulkily at her moorings, the wind’s blast uneven. Under her guns there was no enemy, no ship closer than the humble Pylades. A forward gun went off, a sullen, subdued thud. Another fired, the smoke rolling downwind. In the distance Inflexible began firing. It was so unreal, in keeping with his imaginings of the night. Kydd shook himself. “A salute?” he asked dully.

  Hulme grinned and pointed up. At the mainmast head the Bloody Flag streamed out, wet and dull. But at the fore, and in all the other ships, the Royal Standard fluttered, its striking colors unaffected by the rain.

  “King’s Birthday?”

  “No, mate, Restoration Day.” The day nearly one and a half centuries ago when the second King Charles had been restored to his throne after Cromwell’s mutiny. “Shows ’em we�
�re still loyal, like.”

  It was still four hours to the expiry of the ultimatum—four hours to come to a different conclusion and accept the King’s Pardon, to resume his sea life, put it all behind him. But if he did, how would he get away to present himself? Stand up and tell them that Thomas Kydd wanted to save his skin? Steal off in a boat, in disguise so none would recognize who was creeping off?

  He tried to crush the bleak thoughts, and went below in search of Parker, the water streaming off his foul-weather gear. The wind had freshened, gusting in, and was quickly kicking up a sea; the lurching and tugging of the ship added seasickness to the misery of the press-gang victims.

  Below, an ill-tempered meeting was still in progress; Parker was sitting motionless, not intervening. He did not notice Kydd, who quietly left.

  As the morning wore on, the weather got worse and the old ship-of-the-line leaked. Water dripped and ran from waterways above, penetrating decks below. The result was sodden hammocks and the fetid smell of wet bodies.

  The hours turned to minutes, and then it was noon.

  Ironically, the seas were so much in motion that it was impossible for boats; even the gunboats sought shelter around the point. But the seamen were resolved. All votes had been taken, all arguments exhausted. It only needed the President of the Delegates to close, lock and bar the last gate, to inform their lordships formally of the sense of the Parliament.

  “They could see we’re meanin’ what we say an’ come round,” Kydd said hopefully, to the lonely figure of Parker at his quill.

  Parker raised a troubled face. “I don’t think it possible, my dear friend.” He sanded the sheet and passed it to Kydd. “This is the form of words voted by the delegates.”

  Kydd read it aloud. “‘My Lords, we had the honor to receive your lordships’ proclamation (for we did not conceive it to be his Majesty’s)…. How could your Lordships think to frighten us as old women in the Country frighten Children with such stories as the Wolf and Raw head & bloody bones or as the Pope wished to terrify …’”