Mutiny k-4

by Julian Stockwin

  She looked at him, incredulous. 'Ye're tellin' me that y'd see a man choked off f'r this?' she said, shaking the grubby paper at him.

  Kydd shifted uncomfortably. 'It's m' duty, as I said.' He could have mentioned the Articles of War and their savage view of sedition and treasonable writings, but it seemed beside the point.

  Her look hardened. 'I don't need t' remind you, Mr Thomas Kydd, what it's like t' go before th' mast in the navy. So when some gullion says as how it is, where's y' great crime? Tell me!'

  'Don't ask me that, Kitty, it's not f'r me to say,' Kydd said, in a low voice. 'All I know is, the fleet's in open mutiny at Spithead, an' if the French sail'

  'Then they'll sail 'n' fight, they've promised that,' she said scornfully.

  Kydd looked at her with a frown. 'Kitty, ye know a lot about this.'

  'Aye!' she said defiantly. 'There's those who think t' make the journey all the way fr'm Portsmouth t' the Nore just to let their brother Jack Tars know what's happening.'

  'They're here, now?'

  'Cruise along t' the Chequers Inn one night, and could be ye'd hear somethin' will get you thinking.'

  Her face was uncompromising in its conviction, and in it he saw an unspoken rebuke for his lack of involvement.

  Before he could speak, she thrust another paper at him, printed as a broadsheet but somewhat smudged. 'It's a petition, asking f'r redress. Sent t' Black Dick Howe three months ago, an' it was not th' first. Read it!'

  Before he had covered the preliminaries she was on the offensive. 'Provisions at sixteen ounces to th' pound! Common liberty t' go about y'r pleasures ashore! T' be paid while you're lyin' wounded in th' service of y' country!' She sniffed loudly. 'Stap me, but doesn't this sound like what th' meanest grass-comber on the land c'n lay claim to without he goes t' hazard his life?'

  This was not what he had come to see her for. He longed for the cool, balanced assessment he knew he would get from Renzi; her passionate sincerity on behalf of his shipmates made him feel ashamed. Stiffly, he returned the paper. 'I have m' duty, is all’ he said.

  'Duty!' she spat. 'Aye - I'll tell you about duty!' She faced him like a virago, her eyes afire. 'An' it's to y'r shipmates — they who share th' hazards o' the sea with ye, who're there by y'r side when y' face the enemy! Not what some scrovy smell-smock in th' Admiralty tells ye.'

  She held him with her eyes, then her head fell. When it rose again there was a glitter of tears. 'Please go’ she said, in a low voice, 'I've some grievin' to do.'

  There was no answer he could find to what she was saying. 'I thank ye for the refreshments.' He picked up his hat and, without looking at her, made his way to the door.

  'Thomas!' she called. 'You're a good man. But soon it'll be time t' choose.' Her eyes held his with a terrible intensity. 'Y' can never steer two courses at th' same time. When it's time, I pray t' God you take the right one.'

  The Nore anchorage spread out over a mile of sea, a breathtaking display of sea-power, but Kydd was not seeing it as they rounded the point. He couldn't return the bibulous chatting of the boatswain of Director, and pretended to stare out over the anchorage.

  It had to be faced. The terrible uprising at Spithead had cast its shadow as far as the Nore and soon he would have to choose. In his heart he knew that he could never condemn a shipmate for wanting full measures from the purser. The alternative, however, ran against all he had ever felt for the navy.

  On board Achilles there was unaccustomed quiet. An evening on the foredeck without dancing, grog and laughter was unsettling. Kydd could see men there, in the usual social groups, but there was none of the jovial camaraderie or careless noise, they were talking quiedy together.

  Below in the gunroom there was a pall of foreboding. The gunner and carpenter had left their cabins forward looking for company and now sat cradling their glasses, gloom etched on their faces. Kydd pulled down a book, but the light of the rush dips was so bad he gave up and gazed moodily at Cockburn, who was as usual scratching out a piece of poetry and oblivious to all else.

  'Himself not back aboard, then,' offered Mr Lane, the gunner. No one was inclined to reply: the captain's erratic movements in the last several days needed little explanation.

  The sharp-nosed surgeon's mate gave a thin smile. 'We takes any more o' the doxies an' we'll have the other half o' the crew under Venus's spell.'

  'What d' you care, Snipes? Ye takes y'r silver off 'em either way,' snapped the gunner, many of whose mates would be owing some of their meagre pay to the surgeon's mate for venereal treatment.

  The smile vanished. Morice, the carpenter, stirred and looked significantly at the two subdued midshipmen at the end of the table boning their best shoes.

  Without a word, Kydd reached for a fork and, blank-faced, jammed it into a well-worn cleft in a deck beam. The midshipmen looked up, and quiedy left.

  Morice leaned forward. 'I've heard as how we got Spithead men aboard,' he said quietly.

  'Aye.' The gunner would be more in touch than the carpenter with the main body of sailors and their concerns. 'Can't stop 'em coming aboard to see their mates in course.'

  'I bin in a real 'nough mutiny once,' Morice muttered. 'Ain't something y' forgets too easy.'

  Lane glanced at him with interest, and Cockburn stopped his scribbling and looked up.

  'Yair, Culloden in th' year ninety-four,' Morice, aware of the attention he was getting, became animated. 'That's right, Troubridge was our cap'n, an' a right taut hand was he. A fine seventy-four she was, Slade built an' a fair sailer—'

  A polite cough from Lane steadied him, and he went on, 'Ship lyin' in Spithead, they thinks t' send us t' sea short on vittles. Ship's company doesn't like this idea, they just in fr'm a cruise an' all, 'n' starts talkin' wry. Then one o' the quartermaster's mates - forget 'is tally t' my shame — we calls him Cocoa Jack on account of him being touched b' the sun, fine, hard-weather kind o' man . . .'

  The carpenter's expression grew troubled at the memory, and his voice changed when he resumed: 'Yeah, fine sort o' seaman. Well, he sees we ain't the stores aboard ‘ll let us sail, an' gets to speakin' with the men. Right reasonable he was, says Cap'n Troubridge would see 'em right if they shows firm.' He looked round the table gravely. 'He says as if they weren't t' take the barky to sea until she was stored proper, it was only their right. Gets half a dozen of his mates an' goes about th' ship organisin'. S' next mornin' they all stands fast when it's "hands t' unmoor ship" — jus' that, willin' t' do any duty but unmoor, they was.'

  'Well, where did you stand in this?' Kydd asked.

  Morice's eyes flicked once at him, and he continued, 'An' the cap'n listens, calm as y' like. Lets Cocoa Jack have his say, nods 'n' says, "Fair enough," or some such. "Yes," he says, when they asks f'r a pardon if they goes back t' duty.'

  'Did they get one?'

  'Sure they did, and fr'm the cap'n's own mouth in front of the whole company.'

  Kydd let out his breath. 'So all square and a-taunto then,' he said.

  'Not quite,' Morice said, in an odd manner. 'Hands turn to, but quick as a flash, when they wasn't expectin' it, Troubridge has 'em all clapped in iron garters, an' before they knows it they're in a court martial in the flagship f'r mutiny.' He paused significantly. 'They claims pardon - but funny thing, mates, th' court couldn't find any evidence o' one, no written pardon.' Another pause. 'So five on 'em, includin' Cocoa Jack, gets taken out 'n' hung on the fore yardarm afore the whole fleet.'

  While he drained his pot noisily the others exchanged glances. Letting the atmosphere darken, Lane waited and then growled, 'I was in Windsor Castle previous t' this'n, left before they has their mut'ny.' He looked for attention. 'Now that was a downright copper-bottomed, double-barrelled swinger of a mut'ny.

  'Remember it's a bigger ship, ninety-eight she was, a stronger crew, and they has the admiral an' all on board. An' it's just the same year as yours, mate, but out in th' Med. Can't swear t' the details, 'cos I'd left b' then, but I heard it all
fr'm mates later. Now, ye'll find this a tough yarn, but it's true enough — in the flagship an' all, so hear this. They mutinies because they don't like the admiral, the cap'n, the first 1'tenant an' the bo'sun, and demands they all gets changed!'

  There was a shocked silence, until Morice chuckled. 'Yeah, heard o' that one,' he said, to the chagrin of Lane who was clearly winding up to a climax.

  'Well, what's t' do then?' Kydd demanded.

  Lane finished resentfully, 'No court martial — barring the cap'n only, I should say, an' the cap'n, first luff an' not forgettin' the bo'sun, all gets turned out o' their ship, just as they says.'

  'That's all?'

  'Is all,' confirmed Lane, "ceptin' they gets a pardon, every one.'

  The surprised grunts that this received were quickly replaced by a thoughtful quiet. Cockburn soberly interjected: 'This is different. At Spithead it's not just one ship but the whole fleet. The Admiralty will never forgive them — there'll be corpses at every yardarm for months.'

  'I saw in Th' Times the mutineers are talkin' to Parliament, even got 'em to print their demands in th' paper. It's already past the Admiralty - wouldn't be surprised if Billy Pitt himself ain't involved,' Kydd said.

  'Good Lord! I didn't know that.' Cockburn appeared shaken by the news. 'If that's so then this - well, it's never gone so far before. Anything can happen.'

  Lane's face tightened. 'O' course, you knows what this means f'r us . ..'

  'It's about to start here,' said Cockburn.

  The gunner gave a hard smile. 'No, mate. What it means is that Parlyment has t' finish this quick — that means they'll be askin' us an' the North Sea fleet t' sail around to Spithead an' settle it wi' broadsides.'

  'No!' Kydd gasped.

  'C'n you think else?' Lane growled.

  'Could be. Supposin' it's like y'r Windsor Castle an' they agree t' do something. Then it's all settled, we don't need t' sail.'

  'You're both forgetting the other possibility,' Cockburn said heavily.

  'Oh?'

  'That the Spithead mutiny spreads here to the Nore.'

  A wash of foreboding shook Kydd. Out there in the night unknown dark forces were tearing at the setded orderliness of his world, upheavals every bit as threatening as the despised revolution of the French.

  'Need t' get me head down,' muttered Morice. 'Are ye—' The little group froze. From forward came a low rumble, more felt than heard. It grew louder — and now came from the upper deck just above. It came nearer, louder, ominous and mind-freezing: it seemed to be coming straight for them, thunderous and unstoppable.

  Then, abruptly, the noise ceased and another rumble from forward began its fearful journey towards them. Unconsciously the surgeon's mate gripped his throat and, wide-eyed, they all stared upward. The gunner and carpenter spoke together ‘Rough music!'

  This was a rough and ready but effective way for seamen to let the quarterdeck know of serious discontent. In the blackness of night on deck, a twenty-four-pounder cannon ball from the ready-use shot garlands would be rolled along the deck aft, the culprit impossible to detect.

  It was nearly upon them — whatever storm it was that lay ahead.

  They were waiting for him at the fore jeer bitts, hanking down after re-reeving a foreyard clew-line block, making a show of it in the process. Standing in deliberate, staged groups, eyes darted between them.

  Kydd saw the signs and tensed. 'Ah, Mr Kydd,' Jewell said carefully, inspecting critically the coil of line in his hand as though looking for imperfections.

  'Aye, Nunky,' Kydd replied, just as carefully. The others stopped what littie work they were doing and watched.

  'Well, Tom, mate, we're puzzled ter know what course we're on, these things we hear.'

  'What things, Nunky? The catblash y'r hearing about—'

  'The actions at Spithead, he means, of course.'

  Kydd turned to Farnall, sizing him up. 'And what've y' heard that troubles ye so much?' He was not surprised that Farnall was there.

  'As much as you, I would say,' Farnall said evenly.

  Kydd. coloured. 'A set o' mumpin' villains, led like sheep t' play their country false, the sad dogs.'

  Farnall raised an eyebrow. 'Sad dogs? Not as who would call the brave victors of St Vincent, just these three months gone.'

  Pent-up feeling boiled in Kydd and, knocking Jewell aside, he confronted Farnall. 'You an' y'r sea-lawyer ways, cully, these 'r' seamen ye're talkin' of, fine men ye'd be proud t' have alongside you out on the yard, gale in y' teeth - what d' ye know o' this, y' haymakin' lubber?'

  Jewell spoke from behind. 'Now, Mr Kydd, he's no sailor yet, but haul off a mort on 'im, he's tryin'.'

  Breathing deeply, Kydd was taken unawares by the depth of his anger: Farnall was only an unwitting representative of the rabid forces of the outside world that were tearing apart his share of it. 'Aye, well, if ye runs athwart m' hawse again .. .'

  'Understood, Mr Kydd,' said Farnall, with a slight smile.

  Kydd looked around and glowered; the group drifted apart and left under his glare, but Boddy remained, fiddling with a rope's end.

  'Will?' Kydd would trust his life with someone like Boddy: he was incapable of deceit or trickery and was the best hand on a sail with a palm and needle, the sailmaker included.

  'Tom, yer knows what's in th' wind, don' need me ter tell yez.'

  Kydd didn't speak for a space, then he said, 'I c'n guess. There's those who're stirrin' up mischief f'r their own reasons, an' a lot o' good men are goin' to the yardarm 'cos of them.'

  Boddy let the rope drop. 'Farnall, he admires on Wilkes - yer dad probably told yer, "Wilkes 'n' Liberty!" an' all that.'

  'I don't hold wi' politics at sea,' Kydd said firmly. 'An' don't I recollect Wilkes is agin the Frenchy revolution?'

  'Aye, that may be so,' Boddy said uncomfortably, 'but Farnall, he's askin' some questions I'm vexed ter answer.'

  'Will, ye shouldn't be tellin' me this,' Kydd muttered.

  Boddy looked up earnestly. 'Like we sent in petitions 'n' letters an' that — how many, yer can't count — so th' Admiralty must know what it's like. They've got ter! So if nothin' happens, what does it mean?'

  He paused, waiting for Kydd to respond. When he didn't, Boddy said, 'There's only one answer, Tom.' He took a deep breath. 'They don't care! We're away out of it at sea, why do they haveta care?'

  'Will, you're telling me that ye're going t' trouble th' Lords o' the Admiralty on account of a piece o' reasty meat, Nipcheese gives y' short measure—'

  'Tom, ye knows it's worse'n that. When I was a lad, first went ter sea, it were better'n now. So I asks ye, how much longer do we have ter take it — how long, mate?'

  'Will, y're talkin' wry, I c'n see that—'

  'Spithead, they're doin' the right thing as I sees it. No fightin', no disrespeck, just quiet-like, askin' their country ter play square with 'em, tryin'—'

  'Hold y'r tongue!' Kydd said harshly.

  Boddy stopped, but gazed at him steadily, and continued softly, 'Some says as it could be soon when a man has t' find it in himself ter stand tall f'r what's right. How's about you, Mr Kydd?'

  Kydd felt his control slipping. Boddy knew that he had overstepped - but was it deliberate, an attempt to discover his sympathies, mark him for elimination in a general uprising, or was it a friend and shipmate trying to share his turmoil?

  Kydd turned away. In what he had said Boddy was guilty of incitement to mutiny; if Kydd did not witness against him he was just as guilty. But he could not - and realised that a milestone had been passed.

  He did not sleep well: as an eight-year-old he had been badly shaken when his mother had returned from a London convulsed by mob rioting, Lord Gordon's ill-advised protest lurching out of control. She had been in a state of near-panic at the breakdown of authority, the drunken rampages and casual violence. Her terror had planted a primordial fear in Kydd of the dissolution of order, a reflexive hatred of revolutionaries, and in the darkness he had woken
from terrifying dreams of chaos and his shipmates turned to ravening devils.

  Glad when morning came, he sat down to breakfast in the gunroom. The others ate in silence, the navy way, until Cockburn pushed back his plate and muttered, 'I have a feeling in m' bowels, Tom.'

  'Oh?' Kydd answered cautiously. This was not like Cockburn at all.

  'Last night there was no play with the shot-rolling. It was still, too quiet by half. Have you heard anything from your people?'

  'I heard 'em talkin' but no thin' I c'n put my finger on,' he lied.

  'All it needs is some hothead.' Cockburn stared morosely at the mess-table.

  Kydd's dream still cast a spell and he was claustrophobic. 'Going topsides,' he said, but as he got to his feet, the gunroom servant passed a message across.

  There was no mistaking the bold hand and original spelling, and a smile broke through. This had obviously been brought aboard by a returning libertyman.

  'The sweet Dulcinea calls?' Cockburn asked drily. It was no secret in the gunroom that Kydd's dark good looks were an unfailing attraction to females.

  He broke the wafer.

  It wood greeve me if we are not to be frends any moor and I wood take it kindly in yuo if you could come visit for tea with me.

  Yoor devoted

  Kitty

  His day brightened: he could probably contrive another visit that afternoon — after his experience in an Antiguan dockyard he was good at cozening in the right quarters. Stepping lightly he arrived on deck; it was a clear dawn, promising reliable weather for the loosing and drying of the headsails.

  The duty watch of the hands appeared; the afterguard part-of-ship rigged the wash-deck hose and the morning routine started. Kydd could pace quietly one side of the quarterdeck until the petty officer was satisfied with clean decks and then he could collect the hands.

  He tried to catch a glimpse of their temper. He knew all the signs — the vicious movements of frustration, the languid motions of uncaring indolence — but today was different. There was a studied blankness in what they were doing; they worked steadily, methodically, with little of the backchat usual in a tedious job. It was unsettling.