by David McDine
But for whatever reason, the other ships ceased firing as Euphemus surged forward on a strengthening easterly breeze.
He called for a glass and, leaning against the mainmast for support, raised it to his eye with both hands and swept the nearest ships. Some sort of altercation was going on aboard the nearest and Anson could only surmise it was because some of the gunners were loath to fire on their own shipmates.
Snapping the telescope shut he called to the master. ‘What depth do we have, Mister Sadler?’
The master was monitoring the leadsman’s calls. ‘It’s tricky, sir, varying between five and ten fathoms by the minute. It’s these blessed mudflats, you see, and we can’t be far away from the Middleground Shoal. It’s somewhere hereabouts …’
But his answer tailed off as the ship’s progress came to a sudden shuddering halt and all on deck were thrown around with great violence.
Anson was helped to his feet by the bosun. He retrieved his hat and the telescope and looked across at the master who had also been thrown off his feet and was struggling to get up. ‘I presume, Mister Sadler, that we have just discovered your Middleground Shoal?’
‘Aye, sir,’ the master answered ruefully, ‘I’m very much afraid that we have, and now we really are sitting ducks. You will recall, sir, I did warn that this could very well happen.’
Anson reacted irritably. ‘Yes, yes, Mister Sadler! It’s exactly as you warned, and unless we do something about it, and quickly at that, we’ll sit here helpless before the delegates’ guns. But kindly refrain from reminding me what I already know and advise me on what we can do about it.’ He was not normally one to chide others in front of their underlings, but he could no longer hide his irritation.
Sadler flushed, but before he could answer, first one then another of the ships still under the delegates’ control recommenced firing on Euphemus, directly this time. These were no longer warning shots but were aimed high, doubtless to damage cordage and canvas to ensure that the escaping ship went nowhere.
The gunners, Anson acknowledged, had adopted the French style of attempting to cut away sails and rigging, leaving the hull undamaged. Even the most radical were no doubt reluctant to kill fellow-seamen, some of whom were no doubt still sympathetic to the mutiny, unnecessarily.
He called the bosun, Hogg, the acting gunner, Connor, the carpenter, and the pilot to a quick council of war.
‘Well, Mister Sadler, what can we do? Lying here we’re as helpless as a stranded whale and at the mercy of the delegates’ guns.’
Sadler looked nervously at the others. ‘I did warn you, sir …’
Anson’s patience was wearing paper-thin as the brisk gunfire continued and more of the rigging fell about them.
‘No-one’s blaming you, master. The responsibility is mine. But if you have nothing more constructive to say I suggest—’
But before he could finish the bosun chipped in: ‘We’ll need to get her off this shoal, sir, and in short order or else the waverers will turn again and vote to re-join the mutiny. And if they do that I wouldn’t give a lot for our chances – or yours.’
The handful of men around him waited expectantly and Anson knew that only drastic and immediate action would give them a chance of getting out of their predicament.
‘Very well,’ he said, with all the calmness he could muster, ‘this is what we must do. We’ll run her lower deck guns over the side to lighten her, and then try kedging her off.’
The master nodded. ‘All things considered in these dire circumstances, that’s about the best we could do, sir.’
A mite sarcastically, Anson answered: ‘Thank you for expressing your confidence in my plan so eloquently, Mister Sadler. Now, bosun, see to it that the guns are ditched and lower the kedge anchor into the boat we came in. Pick the strongest oarsmen and tell them they are to row like hell into the navigable channel and heave it in. Once that’s done, call for volunteers to man the capstan bars again and we’ll heave ourselves off. Go to it. Time is of the essence!’
The bosun knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Hogg had registered horror at the thought of some of his precious guns going overboard, but realised there was no alternative and wisely held his peace. Connor was already on his way to the lower gun deck, calling to his mates to bring sledgehammers and saws.
Anson called: ‘Master!’
‘Sir?’
‘Reef sails while we have some left. If the delegates’ gun crews see them come down they may think we’re about to give up and will stop using our canvas for target practice.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
Anson leant back against the mainmast, listening as his orders were relayed, and recalling incredulously that only the night before last he had been enjoying a most convivial evening with Josiah Parkin and his niece in the peaceful atmosphere of Ludden Hall. How much had happened since then …
Loud hammering from below told him that gun ports were being knocked out, and then came cries of men heaving and a series of splashes as the guns went overboard.
Absurdly, given the circumstances, ditching the guns disturbed him even more than abandoning the anchor. But he consoled himself that when normality returned it might well be possible to recover them, given that they were on a known shoal marked on the charts.
While the rest of the guns were being manhandled overboard the kedge, the ship’s smallest anchor, was lowered into the boat and oarsmen led by the bosun swarmed down the side netting to man it.
A wag shouted: ‘Don’t row orf wivout attaching a rope to that there anchor, bosun!’
This raised a laugh, but although Anson reckoned that Rook knew what he was doing he peered over the side to make sure the kedge anchor was indeed attached by a light cable.
The boat’s crew’s task was to row out into deeper water and drop the anchor which would, he hoped, stick fast in the bottom mud so that they could haul on it via the ship’s capstan and literally hook themselves off.
Anson had determined to place himself alongside the heavers to underline that he had come not simply to give orders but to put himself on the line to save the ship – and all their lives.
The boat carrying the anchor was silhouetted and the mutinous gunners soon smoked what was afoot. A ball skimmed across the water from one of their ships but was fortunately well wide.
Anson debated with himself about the possibility of calling the kedging crew back, but rejected the thought. They represented his only chance of getting the ship off the mudflat and if this did not work they would remain stuck fast, wallowing helplessly at the mercy of every mutineer gunner.
Sergeant Kennard asked: ‘D’you want me to get a couple of gun crews together and return fire, sir?’
Anson shook his head. ‘No. If we open up on them we’ll bring down the fire of every other ship on us. We’ll have to take our chance and hope to haul her off.’
The master protested: ‘But, sir, they’re targeting the boat—’
‘I don’t think they were aiming at the kedging boat, Mr Sadler. It was more of a warning. There’ll be those on board the mutinous ships who won’t tolerate killing fellow seamen. If we recall the kedging crew we’ll be doing just what they want us to do. We’ll be stuck here and all they’ll need do is send their own boats to re-take us. Then they can kedge us off and take us back into the bosom of the fleet. And you and I will be the first to be clapped in irons – or worse.’
Another ball scudded over the water, this time only a few yards ahead of the kedging boat.
Sadler winced and considered for a moment before agreeing. ‘You’re right, sir. I can see that. But the boys had better get a shift on or those gunners might just forget that they don’t want to kill their comrades.’
Anson put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes and squinted at the boat.
‘Are they far enough out in the channel?’
‘Another few strokes I should think, sir.’
‘Bosun?’
‘
He’s in the boat, sir!’
‘Of course!’ He slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Very well, master, get some of his mates to stand the men by to man the capstan.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Turning back to the rowers, Anson cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted: ‘Ahoy the kedging crew. Are you far enough off the mud?’
The bosun’s reply was faint but just audible. ‘That we are, sir. Looks like we’re in deep water again.’
‘Then heave the anchor!’
The oarsmen shipped their oars, took hold of the kedge anchor and there was a great splash as it went over the side and sank in the channel, a stream of bubbles marking its descent until it reached bottom and one of its flukes buried itself in the thick glutinous mud.
Immediately, without the need for a further order, the rowers resumed their seats, dipped oars, manoeuvred the boat round and pulled together, a little erratically at first and then in unison back to the ship.
The dropping of the anchor had clearly been observed from the nearest mutinous ships and their guns remained silent as it was realised that they had failed to deter the kedging crew.
By the time the boat clapped on to Euphemus’s starboard side the cable was being swiftly hauled back up and attached to the capstan.
This huge turntable on the upper deck required six men pushing each of its twelve bars that resembled the spokes of a wheel.
A large group of volunteers was being gathered by the bosun’s mates – far more men than were needed. But then, Anson reckoned, it would be exhausting work and replacements would almost certainly be needed before the job was done.
The bosun and the rest of the boat’s crew clambered back on deck and he and Anson pushed their way through the throng and took their places among the volunteers manning the bars.
‘Ready boys?’ called the bosun.
There was a chorus of ‘aye, ayes’ and he shouted: ‘Take the strain … heave!’
The men at the bars pushed against them and at first the capstan turned freely as it took up the slack in the cable. But as the anchor bit home and the cable tautened, pushing became harder, there was virtually no movement and the men around Anson were beginning to strain, puff and blow.
Weakened by his recent illness and unused to hard physical work, he felt himself wilting.
Noting the lack of progress, other men joined their mates at the capstan bars, so that there were now seven or eight to each, heaving for all they were worth.
At last the capstan began to turn slowly and with much groaning of timbers and cheers from the hands, the ship crept forward a few inches towards the deep where the kedge anchor was holding firm.
Now that it was moving at last, Anson fell out, his lungs gasping for air, and he sank to the deck along with a number of others who, like him, had temporarily succumbed to the effort. But their places were quickly taken and the ship continued to creep forward fractionally.
All eyes were on the cable until a crack of a cannon and the splash of a ball dropping just ahead of the ship made all hands swing round in alarm. One of the mutinous ships had opened fire with what he hoped was only another warning shot.
Undeterred, the men at the capstan continued to push and Anson guessed that they were being watched closely through glasses from some of the nearby ships because almost immediately several more guns opened up on Euphemus.
Forcing himself back to the capstan he yelled: ‘Heave, men, heave! Push like hell and let’s float her off before those gunners take their fingers out and start aiming true!’
The cable, no doubt made in the new ropery at Chatham Dockyard, tautened again.
With the bosun shouting encouragement, they heaved and heaved. Seeing what needed to be done, a few more volunteers came forward and found spaces at the capstan and then slowly but surely and with much creaking Euphemus began to move faster, a few inches at first and then feet, then yards until at last she slumped and slithered forward off the mud-bank into the deeper water of the navigable channel.
They were free of the mud and would soon be free of the delegates’ control – and free of the mutiny.
Anson, still feeling weak and exhausted from his efforts at the capstan, sat on a grating, his chest heaving.
Somehow he pulled himself together to give the orders for setting what canvas they still had to sail away to Sheerness, but there was no need. The capstan party were sprawled every which way, but other willing hands were already in the rigging setting sail and the pilot was alongside the quartermaster. They were taking the ship in.
He noted with relief that the mutinous ships had ceased firing, but why he knew not.
While his attention was elsewhere and before the ship had got fully under way a boat bumped alongside and three men clambered aboard.
Rook pushed through the exhausted capstan crew and warned Anson. ‘Some delegates have come on board, sir, and they want a word with you.’
Anson raised his eyes heavenward. So that was why the firing had ceased, but this was the very last thing he needed. ‘Very well, Mister Rook, bring them here.’
The newcomers were ushered to him and Anson struggled to his feet and gave them the once-over. Two, clearly seamen, were strangers to him, but he could not have been more astonished to see who the third man, clearly their leader, was.
This was a face he was very familiar with, having sat opposite the man in the mail coach from London to Portsmouth just a few short weeks before.
It was Greybeard, the man who had tried to steal the Admiralty papers from him, and it was obvious that he was no seaman.
He stared at the man. ‘You! You’re the one who attacked me when I got off the mail coach at Portsmouth. What in hell’s name are you doing here?’
Greybeard sneered. ‘I could ask the same of you. It’s plain who you are. You’re an Admiralty spy. I’m with the delegates.’
‘Not one of them?’ Anson had heard that there were revolutionary trouble-makers about, and it was rumoured that such men had been encouraged by the French to foment trouble.
Some of the ship’s company who had chosen not to help heave the ship off the shoal were gathering behind the newcomers.
Greybeard addressed them. ‘I’ve come across this jumped-up officer before, lads. He’s from the Admiralty and he’s been hobnobbing with the admiral down at Portsmouth. I’ll bet you anything you like he’s been sent here now to fool you into taking the ship in to try and break the rest of us. But I can tell you, if you continue to help him you’ll be signing your death warrants. It’s divide and conquer and if you give up now you’ll be swinging from your own yard arm before the month’s out. Throw him over the side now and we can hoist the red flag again. Your mates in the other ships will welcome you back with open arms!’
There was murmuring among the men on deck, many of them torn between continuing the escape or rejoining the mutiny.
One of the hotheads shouted. ‘He’s right, mates! Like as not they’ll string us up if we take her into the dockyard. There’s thousands of soldiers been brought in to take us on!’
Another yelled: ‘Aye, that’s true. There’s cavalry patrolling the waterside and they’ve set up shore batteries. Let’s rejoin the delegates afore it’s too late!’
Still another joined him. ‘We’ll be slaughtered if we go in! Let’s pack this escape nonsense in now and haul up the red flag again!’
Those both for and against began shouting. but the bosun held up his hand and shouted for silence. ‘That’s rubbish boys. We’ve been given the admiral’s personal assurance that we’ll be welcomed back and given a free pardon.’
Greybeard laughed sardonically. ‘An admiral’s personal assurance! I wouldn’t give a brass farthing for one of those. Has he assured you that you’ll get paid regular, allowed shore leave and all the other things we’ve fought for? Bet your lives he hasn’t and if he has, well, sure as eggs is eggs you won’t get any of it!’
The man’s exhortation drew a cacophony of shouts, for and
against.
It was a critical moment and Anson knew it. He stepped up on a grating so that he could be seen and waited for the shouting to die down. ‘Don’t listen to Greybeard here, men. I did encounter him down in Portsmouth where he was agitating to keep the Spithead mutiny going, but he’s not your friend, and he’s no seaman. He’s a revolutionary, a traitor and supporter of the Frogs!’
Greybeard tried to shout him down but Anson persisted. ‘As God’s my witness, lads, what the bosun has told you is the truth. The admiral sent me to help you break free and I swear to you that I would not have come if you were to be treated badly when we take the ship in. The opposite is true and every man jack of you will be pardoned, whether you supported the mutiny in the first place or not—’
‘Rubbish! It’s all lies. Give in now and you’ll be slaves forever!’
There were murmurs of support for Greybeard from the dissenters, some of whom had gathered behind him, and Anson knew that if he delayed for another moment the tide of support for taking the ship in could disappear.
He seized the moment. ‘Master, set fore-topsail! We’ll get under way without further ado.’
The master raised his speaking trumpet to relay the order. But before he could do so Greybeard snarled, pushed his way in front of Anson and drew a pistol from his belt, shouting: ‘I’ll see you die before I let you take this ship in, you government lackey!’
Anson stood, helpless, as the agitator slowly raised the pistol and aimed it at his chest. The thought raced through his brain: so this is how I am to die, on the deck of a mutinous ship at the hand not of a Frenchman, but one of our own.
One of Greybeard’s supporters yelled: ‘Don’t piss about – just shoot the bastard right now!’
12
Into Sheer Nasty
Greybeard extended his right arm and raised the pistol again so that it was now pointing directly between Anson’s eyes. Then, without taking his own eyes off his intended victim, he reached over with his left hand and cocked the weapon.
It was only a foot away. No-one could miss from there.