Mutiny k-4

by Julian Stockwin

  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? Bum 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 grey 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 realised, 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 grey. 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 insistendy on his oilskins.

  Hulme 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 colours 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 bacon? Steal off in a boat, in disguise so none would recognise 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 quiedy 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 foetid 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 round 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 honour 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..."'

  "They can't send this!'

  'It gets worse.'

  '"Shall we now be induced from a few Paltry threats to forsake our Glorious plan & lick your lordships feet for Pardon & Grace, when we see ourselves in possession of 13 sail of as noble Ships as any in His Majesty's service, and Men not inferior to any in the Kingdom? ..."'

  Kydd went cold. This would push the whole into unknown regions, it was a bitter, provocative taunt — but his heart was with the reckless courage and defiant spirit that were all the seamen had left.

  'I have to send it. This is their feeling.'

  'Yes. I see,' Kydd murmured.

  * * *
/>   In the afternoon, the Bloody Flag fluttered down in Clyde and a white one appeared. Kydd and Parker watched in silence as the same happened in San Fiorenzo. But then the masts of Inflexible, anchored between, changed their aspect: she had a spring to her cable and heaved round so the wavering vessels faced two lines of guns apiece. The red flag slowly ascended again.

  By early evening, the seas had moderated. The gunboats sailed out to the fleet again as the president of the delegates made ready to go ashore. Niger was seen without her red flag; cannon fire was heard again in the anchorage, but in vain. The frigate slipped away.

  Parker and the delegates entered the boats and pulled ashore through squally weather. Soaked but defiant, the men marched once more to the commissioner's house.

  'Here is our response, sir,' Parker said, handing the letter to Admiral Buckner. 'I shall return for your reply.'

  He turned and retired from the scene with dignity. There was brave and foolhardy talk at the Chequers, but Parker sat apart.

  At six, they filed out for the quarter-mile walk to where the flag of the Lord High Admiral of England still flew. The people of Blue Town lined their way, but in the rain there were only thin, scattered cheers. Most remained sombre and quiet, watching the seamen as if they were going to meet their fate.

  Buckner emerged promptly, but his head was held high and he kept his distance.

  'Good evening, sir,' Parker said. 'May I know if their lordships have an answer to our letter?'

  'They have not! There will be no answer. Are you here to make your submission?'

  Parker kept his silence.

  'You may still, through their lordships' grace, accept the King's Pardon. But if you fire again on a king's ship, then every man will be excluded from the pardon,' the admiral added hastily.

  Not deigning to reply, Parker gave a low bow, and left.

  'The kippers, if you please. They are particularly succulent, I find.' Renzi's lodgings in Rochester were small, but quiet. His words caused the merchant gendeman opposite to lower his newspaper and fix him with a warning glare: conversation at breakfast was of course entirely ill-mannered.

  Renzi inclined his head and picked up his own Rochester Morning Post. He quickly opened it to the news; with the big naval-construction dockyard of Chatham close by and Sheerness but a dozen miles further out, it was to be expected that coverage of the recent shocking events at the Nore would be extensive.

  He particularly wanted news on the much talked-about visit by the lords of the Admiralty, with their promises of pardon, but what he saw was far worse. It seemed that after intolerable insults from the mutinous seamen, their lordships had washed their hands of the matter and taken themselves and their pardon back to London. The editorial wondered acidly whether this meant that readers could now, all restraint gone, expect a descent by hordes of drunken seamen.

  Renzi slowly laid down the newspaper. This was the worst news possible. For some reason the mutineers had rejected their last hope; they had nowhere else to go. Pitt would never forgive them now, not after the inevitable spectacle of the army or the loyal remnant of the navy ending the mutiny in a welter of ignominious bloodshed..

  He couldn't face breakfast with the knowledge that his dearest friend was now beyond mercy, the pardon withdrawn. He left the lodging, striding fiercely in a rage of hopelessness, past the curious medieval streets and shops, up steep cobbled roads.

  Logic said that there were only two courses: that Kydd could be miraculously saved, or that Renzi should resign himself to his friend's fate and spare himself the hurt. The former was for all practical purposes impossible, the latter he could not face.

  That left the ludicrous prospect of trying to find a miracle. The path turned into a grassy lane down to the river crossing, and the soft and ancient grey stone of a Norman castle. His hand reached out to touch its timeless strength, willing an inspiration, but none came.

  All Renzi knew was that he had to do something, try something . .. He came to a resolution: he would go to London.

  The coach was uncomfortable and smelly, but he made the capital and the White Hart Inn well before dark. Restless and brooding, he left his bag at the inn and braved the streets. London was the same riotous mix of noise and squalor, carriages and drays, horses and hawkers, exquisites and flower-girls. Instinctively he turned into Castle Street and south past the Royal Mews — time was pressing, and it could all come to a conclusion very soon.

  He trudged through the chaos of Charing Cross, then entered the broad avenue of White Hall. Past the Treasury was Downing Street, where he knew behind the bland frontage of Number Ten the Prime Minister was probably in cabinet, certainly taking swift and savage measures.

  Renzi stopped and looked despondently down the street. His father had powerful connections in Parliament, a rotten borough and friends aplenty, but he knew he could be baying at the moon for all the help they would give him now.

  He retraced his steps. This was the seat of power, the centre of empire. Rulers of strange lands around the globe, the King himself, but not one could he think to approach.

  On past Horseguards he continued, and then to the Admiralty itself. Staring at the smoke-grimed columns, the stream of officers and bewigged civilians coming and going, he cudgelled his brain but could think of nothing that might break the iron logic of the situation: Kydd was a mutineer who had publicly declared for the insurrection — there could be no reasoning with this.

  Black thoughts came. Would Kydd want to see Renzi at the gallows for his execution, or brave it out alone? Was there any service he could do for him, such as ensure his corpse was not taken down for dissection?

  The lamplighters came out as the dusk drew in, and Renzi's mind ached. As he waited for a grossly overloaded wagon to cajole and threaten its way round Charing Cross, he concluded that there was no possible answer he could find. Perhaps there was someone who could tell him of one — but who, in his whole experience, would know both naval imperatives and political expediencies?

  From somewhere within his febrile brain came memories of a quite different time and place: the sun-blessed waters of the Caribbean, a hurricane, and a fearful open-boat voyage. It was a slim chance, but he had no other: he would seek out Lord Stanhope, whose life and mission he and Kydd had secured together.

  Stanhope would never stoop to using his standing with the government for such a cause, but he could give Renzi valuable inside knowledge of the wheels of power, perhaps an insight into how... But Stanhope was beyond reach for a mere mortal. Dejection returned as Renzi thought through the impossibility of gaining access to a senior government figure in a wartime crisis.

  Then another flood of recollection: a crude palm hut on a Caribbean beach, an injured Stanhope and a promise exacted from Renzi that if Stanhope were not to survive, he should at all costs transmit his intelligence to a Mr Congalton, at the Foreign Office.

  Renzi hurried back to the White Hart. The landlord provided writing materials, and in his tiny room he set to. It was the height of gall, but nothing could stop him now. The form of the letter was unimportant: it was simply a request for a hearing, through Congalton to Stanhope, shamelessly implying a matter of discreet intelligence.

  He folded the letter and plunged out into the night, scorning the offer of a link-boy. Without a long coat and sword he would not be worth the attention of robbers. The Foreign Office was well used to late-night messages passed by questionable figures, and he slipped away well satisfied.

  A reply arrived even while he was at an early breakfast - 'Hatchard's, 173 Piccadilly, at 10 a.m.' He forced his brain to an icy calm while he rehearsed what he intended to say, and in good time he made the most of his attire, clapped on a borrowed hat and appeared at the appointed place.

  It turned out to be a bookseller recently opened for business, well placed in a quality district and just down from Debrett's. No stranger to books, Renzi eyed the packed shelves with avarice. Bold tides on political economy and contemporary analysis tempted
, as well as tracts by serious thinkers and pamphlets by parliamentary names. Engrossed, he missed the activity around the carriage that drew up outside.

  'You would oblige me by the use of your back room, Mr Hatchard.'

  Renzi wheeled round. It was Stanhope, the lines in his face a little deeper, the expression more flinty. Renzi bowed and was favoured by a brief smile.

  'If you please, my lord.' An assistant took Stanhope's cloak, then led the party up a spiral staircase to a comfortable upper room at the rear, where they were ushered to the high-backed chairs before the fire.

  'Coffee, my lord?'

  "Thank you, John, that would be welcome. Renzi?' The interval, as the assistant served, allowed time for Renzi to compose himself.

  'A long time, my lord,' Renzi said, his heart hammering. There was now no one else in the room. The chandelier threw a bright, pleasing light over several reading desks arranged to one side.

  'You have not asked me here on a matter of intelligence,' Stanhope said shortly, his voice just loud enough to be heard.

  'Er, no, my lord,' Renzi said. He knew enough of Stanhope to refrain from dissimulation: it would help nobody to delay.

  'Then ... ?'

  Renzi took a deep breath. 'Your advice is solicited, my lord, in a matter which touches me deeply.' 'Go on.'

  'A very dear friend has been unfortunate enough to be caught up in the recent mutiny, and I am concerned how to extricate him.'

  'The Nore?'

  'Just so.'

  'Therefore he has chosen not to avail himself of the King's gracious pardon?'

  'It would seem that is the case.'

  Expressionless, Stanhope steepled his fingers and said, 'You realise, of course, I can have no influence on the course of this unhappy affair once it has reached its climax. It is completely within the jurisdiction of the Admiralty courts, his only hope of mercy lying in the King's express forgiveness. I rather suggest that in the circumstances of the King's known hostility to the mutineers' actions this will not be a likely prospect. I advise you, Renzi, to resign yourself. Your friend unhappily has nothing but the gallows to reflect upon.'