Mutiny k-4

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd's eyes burned. He raised a fist. 'God damn ye for a bloody dog, Renzi. I have t' live with this now.'

  'Just so.'

  'I was in insurrection agin my king an' country.'

  'This is true. You have also been given the chance to atone — I'd hazard your loyalty to the sea service from now on will be a caution to us all.'

  'You cold-blooded bastard! There are men I know over there in chokey waitin' t' be led out t' the fore yardarm, an' all you can do—'

  'Mr Kydd! At some point you will put all this behind you, and step out to your future. It may be a week, a year or even half your remaining days, but it will come. The rational thing is to accept it, and make it earlier, rather than filling your days with regrets. Which will it be for you?'

  Kydd lowered his head, and tried to cool his anger. Renzi's words made sense: there was nothing at all he could do about his situation other than humbly accept his fortune and move on.

  'Shall we rejoin Kitty?' Renzi said gendy. 'I have been promised a mutton pie, which I lust for.'

  Kydd sat for a litde longer, then lifted his head. 'Yes.' He stood facing the far-off men-o'-war. 'It's all over, then, Nicholas,' he said thickly. His eyes glistened.

  'All over, my dear friend.'

  They walked together down the hill.

  'Nicholas,' Kydd began hesitantly, 'y'r decision t' return to y' family. May I know—' 'My position is unaltered.'

  'Welcome aboard, Mr Kydd. You're in Mr Monckton's watch, he'll be expectin' you.' The master of HMS Triumph shook Kydd's hand and escorted him below. A considerate Hartwell had ensured that he would rejoin the fleet as a master's mate in a new ship, a well-tried 74-gun vessel in for minor repair.

  Monckton looked at him keenly. 'I heard you were caught up in the late mutiny.'

  Kydd tensed, then said carefully, 'Aye, sir, I was.' He returned the curious gaze steadily.

  Monckton did not pursue the matter, and went on to outline Kydd's duties and battle quarters. He looked at Kydd again, then added, 'And everyone knows of your splendid open-boat voyage. I'm sure you'll be a credit to Triumph, Mr Kydd.'

  The ship was due to return to station at Yarmouth, but first she joined others in taking position in the Medway, at Blackstakes. Kydd knew what was happening — Sandwich was moored midstream, ships of the fleet around her. On the banks of the river spectator stands were erected; at Queenborough and the public landing place at Sheerness small craft were sculling about, kept in their place by naval guardboats.

  Troops filed out of the fort and along the foreshore. With fixed bayonets they faced seaward in a double line towards Sandwich. The crowd surged behind them, chattering excitedly, and boats started heading towards the big three-decker.

  At nine, the frigate Espion fired a fo'c'sle gun. A yellow flag broke at her masthead, the fleet signal for capital punishment. Sandwich obediently hoisted a yellow flag in turn.

  Kydd watched with an expression of stone, but his soul wept.

  Just a few hundred yards away a temporary platform had been built on the starboard cathead, a scaffold -the prominence would give a crowd-pleasing view.

  'Clear lower deck! Haaaands to muster, t' witness punishment!' The boatswain's mates of HMS Triumph stalked about below until the whole ship's company was on deck, many in the rigging, the fighting tops and even out along the yards.

  Kydd stood between the officers and the seamen, and moved to the ship's side. In Sandwich the men had similarly been called on deck, with marines in solid ranks forward and aft.

  A rusde of sighs arose at the sight of a figure entirely in black emerging on deck from the main hatchway, flanked with an escort. It was too far away to distinguish features, but Kydd knew who it was.

  Parker paused. His face could be seen looking about as if in amazement at the scene. Over on the Isle of Grain women jostled each other for the best view of the spectacle and men stood on the seafront with telescopes trained.

  The distant prisoner knelt for a few moments before a chaplain on the quarterdeck. When he arose his hands were bound and he passed down the length of the vessel to the fo'c'sle, then to the cathead under the fore yardarm.

  An interchange occurred; was Parker being allowed to speak? It seemed he was, and he turned aft to address his old shipmates. The provost marshal approached with the halter, which would be bent to the yard-rope, but there was some difficulty, and the presiding boatswain's mate was needed to secure the halter above. The provost marshal put a handkerchief into Parker's hands, and he stumbled up to the scaffold. The officer pulled a hood over Parker's head, then stepped down.

  Parker stood alone. A party of seamen was ranged down the deck with the yard-rope fall ready to pull. The signal to haul would be a fo'c'sle gun, their cue apparently Parker's handkerchief.

  In that endless moment Kydd struggled for control, the edge of madness very near.

  Without warning Parker jumped into space. Taken by surprise, the gun then fired, and the sailors ran away with the hanging rope, jerking Parker's body up. It contorted once, then hung stark. A handkerchief fluttered gently to the water.

  Kydd bit his lip. Even to the last Parker had thought of the seamen: he had effectively hanged himself to spare them the guilt.

  The next day five vessels at the Great Nore flew the Blue Peter; Triumph was one. The North Sea squadron would be whole again, and at sea.

  Of all the memories Sheerness would hold, there was one that shone like a beacon for Kydd. He secured an understanding permission to go ashore for a few hours before the ship sailed, and stepped out for the hulks.

  'Kitty, how do I find ye?' He hugged her close.

  'Come in, Tom, darlin',' she said, but her voice was tired, subdued.

  Kydd entered the familiar room and sat in the armchair. Kitty went to fetch him an ale. 'I'm master's mate in Triumph seventy-four,' he called to her. 'She's gettin' on in years but a good 'un - Cap'n Essington.'

  She didn't reply, but returned with his tankard. He looked at her while he drank. 'We're North Sea squadron,' he explained. 'C'n expect to fall back on Sheerness t' vittle 'n' repair, ye know.'

  'Yes, Tom,' she said, then unexpectedly kissed him before sitting down opposite.

  Kydd looked at her fondly. 'Kitty, I've been thinkin', maybe you 'n' me should—'

  'No, Tom.' She looked him in the eyes. 'I've been thinkin' too, m' love.' She looked away. 'I told ye I was fey, didn't I?'

  'V did, Kitty.'

  She leaned forward. 'Tom Kydd, in y'r stars it's sayin' that y're going t' be a great man — truly!'

  'Ah, I don' reckon on that kind o' thing, Kitty,' Kydd said, pink with embarrassment.

  'You will be, m' love, mark my words.' The light died in her eyes. 'An' when that day comes, you'll have a lady who'll be by y'r side an' part o' your world.'

  'Aye, but—'

  'Tom, y' know little of the female sex. Do y' think I'd want t' be there, among all them lords 'n' their ladies, knowin' they were giggling' behind y'r back at this jumped-up seamstress o' buntin'? Havin' the fat ol' ladies liftin' their noses 'cos I don't know manners? Have you all th' time apologisin' for your wife? No, dear Tom, I don' want that. 'Sides, I couldn't stand th' life - I'm free t' do what I want now.' She came over and held his hand. 'Next week, I'm leavin' Sheerness. What wi' Ned 'n' all, there's too many memories here. I'm off t' my father in Bristol.' 'Kitty, I'll write, let me—'

  'No, love. It's better t' say our goodbye now. I remember Ned once said, "A ship's like a woman. To think kindly of her, y' have t' leave her while y'r still in love." That's us, Tom.'

  Triumph put to sea, her destination in no doubt. She would be part of Admiral Duncan's vital North Sea squadron, there to prevent the powerful Dutch fleet emerging from the Texel anchorage. If they did — if the Channel was theirs for just hours — the French could at last begin the conquest of England.

  It was at some cost to ships and men: beating up and down the coast of Holland, the French-occupied Batavian Republic, was har
d, dangerous work. The land was low and fringed with invisible sandbanks, a fearful danger for ships who had to keep in with the land, deep-sea ships whose keels brushed shoals while the Dutch vessels, designed with shallow draught, could sail down the coast and away.

  But it was also a priceless school for seamen. With prevailing winds in the west, the coast was a perpetual lee shore threatening shipwreck to any caught close in by stormy winds. And as the warm airs of summer were replaced by the cool blusters of autumn and the chill hammering of early winter, it needed all the seamanship the Royal Navy had at its command to stay on station off the Texel.

  Kydd hardened, as much as by conflicts within as by the ceaseless work of keeping the seas. The mutiny of two months ago was now receding into the past, but he had still not put it truly behind him.

  He accepted the precious gift of reprieve, however achieved: life itself. But so many had paid the price: the gentle Coxall, the fiery Hulme, the fine seaman Davis, Joe Fearon, Charles McCarthy, Famall, others. The Inflexibles, led by Blake, had stolen a fishing-smack and gone to an unknown fate in France.

  It could have been worse: vengeance had been tempered, and of the ten thousand men involved, only four hundred had faced a court, and less than thirty had met their end at a yardarm.

  To say farewell to Kitty had brought pain and loneliness, and with Renzi about to return to his previous life, there was now not a soul he could say was truly his friend, someone who would know him, forgive his oddities as he would theirs in the human transactions that were friendship.

  His reticence about speaking of recent events had stifled social conversation, and a burning need to be hard on himself had extended to others, further isolating him. He withdrew into himself, his spirit shrivelling.

  Days, weeks, months, the same ships that had been in open mutiny were now at sea so continuously that the first symptoms of scurvy appeared. Sails frayed, ropes stranded, timbers failed, and still they remained on station. By October signals from the flagship showed that even the doughty Duncan was prepared to return to Yarmouth to revictual and repair.

  The storm-battered fleet anchored, but there would be no rest. Duncan had said, 'I shall not set foot out of my ship . .-.'It would be a foolhardy captain indeed who found he had business ashore. Storing ship, caulking gaping seams, bending on winter canvas — there was no rest for any.

  Then, early one morning in the teeth of a northwesterly blow, the Black Joke, an armed lugger, appeared from out of the sea fret to seaward of Yarmouth sands. Signal flags whipped furiously to leeward; a small gun cracked out to give emphasis to them, the smoke snatched away in the stiff wind. 'Glory be!' said Triumph's officer-of-the-watch peering through his telescope. 'An' I do believe the Dutch are out!'

  By noon the North Sea squadron had secured for sea, and without a minute lost, Duncan's fleet put out into the white-streaked waters under a dark, brooding sky with every piece of canvas that could draw set on straining spars.

  The wind, however, was astern; the fleet streamed towards Holland in an exhilarating and terrifying charge. The next day they raised land, the Texel, the ancient home of the Dutch fleet, low, sprawling and foreboding under grey skies.

  The Dutch were not there, but Duncan's scouts were. Their dogged tracking of the enemy fleet enabled them to inform Duncan that indeed the Dutch were at sea -and heading southwards. The British fleet wheeled to follow, keeping the shore in sight under their lee all the time. Now at last there was a chance that the enemy could be brought to bay.

  If they caught up, then without doubt there would be a major battle, a formal clash of fleets that would enter history. The stakes could hardly be higher: if they lost the day then the way would be clear for enemy troops to make a landing on the shores of England.

  It would be Kydd's first major fleet action. He almost looked forward to the fight: a purging by combat of all the devils that haunted his soul.

  But would ex-mutineers fight? Under Lieutenant Monckton, Kydd was in charge of the centre main-deck twenty-four-pounders, and to his certain knowledge there were five in the gun-crews he had seen parading under the red flag, including both quarter-gunners.

  At nightfall hopes faded. They had not overhauled the enemy — they could be anywhere, or have changed course to the north and open sea. The fleet shortened sail for the night, standing off the coast.

  Dawn came with driving rain, clearing to blustery squalls that sent men aloft to take in sail. While they were fisting the wet canvas Circe frigate hove in sight, a signal hoist and a gun to leeward bringing every man on deck.

  Kydd hastened to the quarterdeck to hear developments. The signal lieutenant had his glass up, his midshipman beside him with the signal book. 'Enemy in sight, sir!' he said, following the frigate. 'Three leagues to the sou'-east'

  The news spread, and from all parts of the ship roars of satisfaction and ribaldry arose, but Captain Essington waited grimly.

  'Enemy course north, sir.'

  'Ah! That's what I want to hear. They've heard we're at sea and are turned back for home. How far from the Texel?'

  'Er, the town yonder must be Kamperduin, so that makes the Texel fifteen miles distant, sir.'

  'Umm. De Winter has to form up. If we can bring him to action before noon, we have a chance.' The quarterdeck became animated, high spirits breaking through, but Essington did not join in. 'Do you bear in mind, gentlemen, the Dutch are an old and proud race. They have bested us once before in the last age, and we can be sure they will consult their honour again today. Their admiral is of the first rank, and their ships are not worn by stress of weather. They are of equal numbers and they are fighting for their hearth and home in their own seas. Today will be hard-won for the victor. Enough talk! Clear for action, if you please.'

  The boatswain piped the order and the ship was plunged into instant activity. The boatswain's party went to the tops. Their task was to sway up and rig chain slings to restrain hundred-foot yards from plunging down if their the blocks were shot away, with quarter slings on the lower yards.

  Along the decks topsail sheets were stoppered properly, preventer braces led along and a netting spread between main and mizzen to catch wreckage falling from above.

  The galley fire was put out, its cinders placed in tubs amidships ready for scattering over pooling blood, and hammocks were hoisted into the tops to form protective barricades against enemy sharp-shooters.

  Below, in the gloomy orlop, the surgeon and his mates readied the cockpit for who could guess how many men who would be carried in agony and fear below.

  Kydd had little time to think about an unknown future. His quarters were the big twenty-four-pounders along the main deck, and specifically those aft of centre. Standing near the main-hatch gratings he watched his gun captains make ready their pieces: the implements of gunnery — the handspike, sponge, crow — could be relied on to be in place; what was more important were the details.

  He knew what to look for: the match tubs next to each gun for use in case of misfire would be useless without slow-burning match ready alight and drawing. The gunners' pouch of each gun-captain must contain tools and spare flints for the gunlock, and quill ignition tubes checked that the tallow cap had been removed.

  The sound of a grindstone came from forward: pikes, cutlasses and tomahawks were getting a fine edge. A cook's mate carried a scuttled butt of water to place on the centreline for thirsty gun-crews. It was well spiked with vinegar to slow their drinking.

  Activity slowed, the ship was cleared fore and aft. It now only required the enemy to appear and the ship would beat to quarters. During the wait, biscuit and cheese were issued, and a double tot of rum to all hands. It was nearly time ...

  The enemy fleet was sighted at nine, sail upon sail startlingly pale against the dark grey clouds, occupying half the horizon. Beyond lay the flat terrain of Holland. Men came up from the gundeck to catch a glimpse of the enemy; once in action they would not see them again until they closed and grappled.

&nb
sp; At half past, de Winter formed his line of battle. On the quarterdeck Kydd heard the officers' conversation: the taut enemy line was heading to the north - the Dutch, still apparently hoping to reach safe harbour, were sailing close to the land.

  Duncan's strategy was simple: braving the massed broadsides of the enemy he would without delay throw his fleet at their line in two groups, one to larboard under himself to take the Dutch van, the other to starboard under his vice admiral, Onslow, to fall on their rear. Triumph would go with Duncan.

  More signal flags soared up on the flagship, but Kydd never found out what they were for the urgent thunder of a drum sent the ship to quarters.

  With an iron resolution, he clattered down the main hatchway past the marine drummer madly rattling out 'Hearts of Oak'. Of one thing he was certain: he would do his duty to the limit.

  Touching his hat to Monckton, he verified the presence of the young midshipman and three men standing by the centreline grating, then turned his attention to the guns. If they fought both sides at once they would be short-handed; some gun numbers would have to cross the deck to work the opposite gun.

  He stepped up on the grating while the wash-deck hose swashed across the deck. A seaman followed, scattering sand to give grip to the feet. Powder monkeys brought up the first cartridges in their long wooden salt boxes, and he watched as the quarter-gunner settled ear-pads on the young lads. Gun-crews made do with their bandannas, tying them tightly round their heads.

  Kydd took his broad cross-belt, settling it to take the weight of his cutlass, which, as a boarder, he would wear for the rest of the battle. When the order came, he would seize a brace of pistols from the arms-chest and lead the second wave of boarders.

  He paced slowly along, checking and rechecking: the middle of a battle was not a good time to be finding missing spares. Tucked in along the sides of the main-hatch, beside the ready-use shot lining it, were ranged spare breeching, complete training tackles, gun lashings, all becketted up neatly.