The midshipman approached him while he was standing beside the great double steering-wheel. It took a moment to catch his attention, since the object of his instructions was lost in some kind of reverie. Harry hadn’t stood in such a spot for years. Certainly he’d been aboard capital ships, but rarely here, at the very nerve-centre of control. If he’d commanded a ship of the line this was where he’d have exercised that authority. Thus the midshipman had to repeat his request. It was only then that Harry realised he wasn’t some barely breeched youngster at all, but a man well into his middle years, with a rough edge to his voice that hinted at a life which had begun on the lower deck.
‘The delegates from the other ships are arrived. Admiral Colpoys requests that you join him, sir, immediately.’
‘You were before the mast?’ asked Harry.
‘At one time, sir,’ the man replied. Stocky, muscular with a weather-beaten ruddy face, he looked past Harry Ludlow with an expression that was instantly recognizable, being the same one of wistful ambition he’d probably had on his own face just moments before. ‘But with God willing one day I’ll stand where you do now.’
Harry wanted to ask him how he felt, was dying to know if he was a party to the mutiny. This was the very kind of sailor who might be a delegate. He’d probably started life as a ship’s boy, taking blows from any passing tar who fancied passing on some of the pain inflicted by the officers. He’d have been someone’s mate, perhaps a boatswain or a yeoman of the sheets. Sheer grit and determination might have elevated him to an apprenticeship with the master, so that he could learn first-hand about ship handling and navigation.
Ambition and a kindly officer gave him his present limbo rank of midshipman. How did he feel mixing with youngsters, usually the sons of sailors, their relatives, or minor gentry, in the process of learning their trade? This man knew his inside out. Yet unless fortune provided him with a patron or opportunity he could expire from old age without a change of rank. Very likely, if he was proposed, he’d sit and pass his exam for lieutenant. But then what? Would he watch as the offspring of the well connected, with not half his abilities, passed over him to take command of ships and fleets, while he, without the influence to find employment, would be lucky to have control of a coastal merchantman?
‘Immediately,’ the man insisted. ‘The admiral don’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘Yes,’ replied Harry with a nod. He moved away, but turned suddenly to look into the midshipman’s eyes. ‘Would I be permitted to ask your name?’
‘Havergood, sir.’
‘Then, Mr Havergood, may fortune, or whosoever controls it, favour you. I know how hard promotion can be.’
The man smiled for the first time, and his body stiffened slightly as he pulled himself to attention. ‘Why, thank you kindly, sir.’
Again, as he went below, he felt oppressed by the quiet on the upper deck, felt the eyes on his back as he approached the two marine sentries set to guard the entrance to Colpoys’s great cabin. They presented smartly, and one leant down to open the door. Harry went through to enter another world. No bare planking here. The floor had carpets, the walls paintings and elaborate sconces for decorative lanterns. The wood of the furniture, where it showed through the assembled officers, shone with the deep patina of years of care.
Colpoys stood in the centre, his gaunt frame slightly bent though he had ample head room. His eyes, under those threatening, bushy brows, swept round the room, taking in each person present.
‘Gentlemen. It is time to take back our authority. We were commissioned to lead men, not to defer to them, and that is what we are now going to do.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘WHAT is the state of the marine armament?’ the admiral demanded, fixing a scarlet-coated captain with a frosty stare. Harry had seen him talking to this same officer in his barge, so guessed that the answer to the question, which the admiral knew already, was for the benefit of others.
‘Prime, sir. As good as it’s ever been.’
‘And their cast of mind?’
The captain hesitated for a fraction of a second, which robbed his affirmative answer of a great deal of certainty, in reality telling them that though the answer he gave was positive, he really had no idea how they would perform. Colpoys picked it up immediately.
‘We shall never know till we put them to the test, will we, gentlemen?’
There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in the murmured replies. If these officers shared the admiral’s determination, they obviously had grave doubts about the workability of what he was proposing to do. Living in greater proximity to the crew, these lieutenants had a much better understanding of their mood than cosseted and cut-off admirals. Griffiths, standing beside his uncle, had no light of battle in his eye. Indeed he looked much older than his years, a rotund figure, distinctly glum.
‘Right. I want the marines on the poop, muskets primed, and the men ordered to assemble so that I may address them. Captain Griffiths, your officers will carry side-arms.’
‘Sir.’
Colpoys gave them a last sweeping look before ordering everyone, ‘Carry on.’
They filed out, leaving Harry and the admiral alone. A steward appeared with a fresh bottle of port, which he placed amongst the empties that already lay on the long dining table.
‘Drink, Ludlow!’ snapped Colpoys, grabbing the full bottle and filling his crystal goblet.
Harry didn’t want a drink. There was going to be a showdown, obviously, which might very well be an occasion for a clear head. Then he remembered that he was a mere observer, who would have no effect whatsoever on the outcome. He also detected the slight apprehension in Colpoys’s manner. The man wanted companionship, the kind his elevated status debarred him from sharing with the London’s officers.
‘Pleasure.’
Colpoys had already poured it for him, handing it over. He then waited for his servant, who hesitated till he saw the look in his master’s eye, to depart. Colpoys’s gaze was still on the door as he spoke.
‘It’s come to a sorry pass, Ludlow, when a man like me has to guard my tongue against eavesdropping by my own steward. Been with me since I was first made post, yet I can’t be sure if I lay a plan to take back the ship he won’t pass it on to the mutineers.’
‘Even he’s part of the ship’s company, sir.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Colpoys, slamming the crystal goblet down so hard that the stem broke. He held it up for a second, looking at it wistfully. ‘Damn! That was a gift from the Governor of Jamaica.’
The voice changed to the more familiar growl. ‘Don’t believe all you hear, Ludlow. The way folk go on you’d think there wasn’t a tar in the fleet who had doubts about this subversion. That ain’t so. Most men would return to their duty in an instant if it wasn’t for a few malcontents and sea-lawyers.’
Having walked across the maindeck, and noticed the silence, Harry wasn’t sure he agreed. But he saw no purpose in taking issue with his host. If he believed what he was saying, Colpoys wouldn’t be swayed by the opinions of a civilian visitor. And if he didn’t, reminding him of the fact would only inflame his very evident anger.
‘They threw me off Howe’s flagship, you know,’ Colpoys hissed. ‘Not just me, but Gardner and Admiral Pole as well. Gave us a dressing-down in the great cabin then hustled us through the entry port as if we were shoddy tradesmen.’
‘The Queen Charlotte,’ said Harry.
‘Damn that fat, gout-ridden old blackguard Howe with his soft sentimental ways.’ Colpoys’s eyes flashed as he threw the broken, empty glass at the bulkhead before filling another. ‘All this started on his ship. And where is he? Up to his neck in mineral water and gossip at Bath. What’s the damned use of being loved by the crews if the bastards won’t obey you?’
Harry didn’t answer, since there was no point. Colpoys wanted a sounding board, not a conversation. He was working himself up into the state he knew he’d need to confront the sailors.
‘They�
�ve thrown the officers off the St Helen’s ships, and Bridport tells me the insolent sods are set to question if some of them should be removed from their duty permanently. It’s always the same, Ludlow. You must be firm, or an inch taken will go to a mile.’
The sound of marines assembling came through the planking, loud enough to penetrate Griffiths’s cabin, which lay above. Colpoys poured and drained a final glass of port, grabbed his hat, jammed it on his head, and made for the door.
‘You may come and observe if you wish.’
Colpoys made his way on to the poop, to stand beside Ned Griffiths, both men in front of the line of marines. Harry followed him, passing the row of armed junior officers who stood across the quarterdeck on either side of the wheel. Once he’d ascended the companionway he kept well to the windward side of the poopdeck, which gave him a clear view of everyone, including the crew of the London now pushing forward, behind a row of men who must be their delegates, to hear what the admiral had to say to them. This wasn’t achieved without noise, but once they’d assembled they fell silent, the two groups staring at each other for several seconds. This was suddenly broken, from aloft, by the rat-a-tat-tat of some bone player who was so keen to demonstrate his skill that he was beating out his tattoo at a totally inappropriate time.
One or two heads turned to look south and Harry followed their gaze. He saw, in the distance, the line of boats heading towards them from St Helen’s. A glance at the admiral showed that he’d observed them too, and he nodded to Ned Griffiths, who immediately started to repeat the litany by which all sailors in the King’s navy lived, the Articles of War. Griffiths might be uncomfortable, but he had the voice to carry to the tops. He spoke without reference to any book or paper, knowing the words off by heart.
Harry knew them too, a set of rules so comprehensive that a man could face punishment for any number of offences. And where the law stopped a commander, the articles had enough flexibility to allow him to exercise his imagination. In the hands of a tyrant they were a licence to abuse, in those of a good commander the method by which order and discipline were maintained with the consent and cooperation of his officers and crew. Each clause was complete with its punishment, often death, the whole ended with the final threat that ‘whosoever shall transgress these Articles, will answer at their peril to the Lord Commissioners of the Admiralty.’
Griffiths looked away from the sea of faces below to glance south. Colpoys had never shifted his gaze, checking on the progress of the boats which were eating up the distance. Anyone looking at them, and seeing the red flags that they flew, could have no doubt as to their purpose. They were manned by the mutineers of the eight ships which lay at St Helen’s. Having secured their own vessels, they were coming north to ensure that their compatriots at Spithead joined with them.
‘Men,’ shouted Colpoys, stepping in front of his nephew, ‘do you have any knowledge of what happened at St Helen’s this morning?’
Several men, braver than the rest, shouted out a clear ‘no.’ But most shook their heads then turned to their nearest companions to seek enlightenment. Colpoys looked at Griffiths and smiled, a look which held as he asked another question.
‘And have you, after the events of the past days, any grievances remaining?’
As they again responded negatively, Harry was left to wonder if Colpoys was being honest or indulging in deliberate dissimulation. By asking that he avoided alluding to complaints which might have arisen since the original revolt, the kind of injustices that the men approaching in the boats would no doubt enumerate.
‘I thought that to be the case,’ said Colpoys. ‘In fact I was sure of it. You will now oblige me by going below, and leaving the deck to the officers.’
The mass of the crew obeyed immediately, reacting like the sheep they were to a direct command. Nothing better demonstrated how difficult this mutiny must have been to organise: the vast majority of the men involved would have had to be cajoled into even the most minor disobedience. The bones, which had fallen silent as the admiral spoke, rattled out again, this time at a frantic rhythm, as though the player was angry. But that didn’t stop the flow of men on the companionways, and within a minute only a couple of dozen sailors, plus what he assumed were the delegates, who’d crowded forward in the bows, were left. Colpoys had his eye on them, his brows lowered as he no doubt contemplated issuing some form of punishment. Suddenly he shrugged, as though they were of no account.
‘Captain, I want the lower deck guns run in and the port-lids closed, with junior lieutenants and a pair of marines on hand to ensure they stay that way. Hatches to be put in place and all entries to the upper deck sealed off. If those men in the bows won’t go below, hem them in on the forepeak. On no account are those bastards from St Helen’s to get aboard this ship. If we can keep the pestilence of their opinions from our men, then we might keep London loyal.’
‘How far do you intend to go, Uncle?’ asked Griffiths nervously.
‘Just do it, Ned!’ snarled Colpoys. He growled again as his nephew leant over the rail to give his orders. ‘And do it yourself.’
Griffiths’s round face, when he looked back at Colpoys, was flushed with embarrassment, since every one of his subordinates had heard the rebuke. Shoulders hunched, he made his way down the steps from the poop. Colpoys stomped over to the starboard rail, demanded a telescope, and even though he could see them with the naked eye fixed it on the approaching boats. Harry moved across the line of the marines to join him.
‘Damn it! That bastard Valentine Joyce is there.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He was, I’m told, a good able seaman, Ludlow, attentive to his duty. Some fool rated him quartermaster’s mate and now he’s the most seditious bastard in the fleet. He’s one of the delegates from Royal George and to my mind a leading light of the mutiny. He was one of the sods that shoved me off Queen Charlotte.’
Colpoys was swinging his telescope around, searching the faces and reeling off the names of the delegates, all the time cursing as he regaled Harry with the humiliations he’d suffered at the hands of these men. ‘Can you imagine it, Ludlow, having to sit in Howe’s own cabin, and to have to listen to these pigs tell us, admirals all, what they would and would not accept? One of them, Riley, is forward there now with the other vermin, the quartermaster of this very ship. Damn it, if I’d had a pistol I’m not sure but I would have discharged it at them. But never fear, sense will prevail. I marked the sods, names, rating, and ship. I’ll see them at the yardarm, each and every one a-dangling, if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘They’re heading for Marlborough,’ said Harry, pointing to the boats which had swung round to approach the first ship-of-the-line in their path.
‘Damn them!’ He spun round and shouted, ‘Bover, get a signal aloft to Captain Deacon to secure his ship.’
The young lieutenant this was addressed to pulled himself to attention. ‘With respect, sir, the signalling officers are down below guarding the port-lids.’
Colpoys nearly screamed at him. ‘Then use the book yourself, Bover. Christ Almighty, man, you’re the first lieutenant.’
Bover turned to the other naval officers, still spread across the quarterdeck, all older than him, and issued a string of orders. That produced the signal book, but it also engendered a degree of confusion. They’d all used the thing before, and run the flags up the mast. But not for years. The actual mechanics of signalling lay beneath the dignity of any man who’d been promoted from the most junior station. Colpoys couldn’t contain his impatience at the delay.
‘Run up “Repel boarders,” for the love of Christ.’
They were too late. Whatever was happening on the upper deck of Marlborough, no attempt was made to resist the delegates coming aboard. Several minutes passed, then the sound of cheering floated across the water. Harry was sure he could hear Colpoys grinding his wooden teeth in frustration. The delegates’ boats pulled away from the entry port to allow the captain’s barge to come alongs
ide.
‘God in heaven,’ hissed Colpoys, ‘I never dreamed I’d live to see this.’
The stream of officers, led by the captain, came through the entry port and stepped down into the barge. Each one who passed from the darkened interior into the light was greeted by loud, sustained booing. Harry turned to look at Ned Griffiths, his round face anxious, standing beside him.
‘That will be our fate too, Harry,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll be slung off our own ship, just like Deacon.’
As the barge pulled away from the ship, the Marlborough’s shrouds and yards were filled with cheering sailors. But they weren’t just there to celebrate. They were loosing sails, so that the ship could be got under way. Not all the noise was coming across the water. Below their feet the crew of London, who must have heard even if they’d been prevented from seeing, started to push on the closed hatches, yelling to be set free. The boats from St Helen’s that had surrounded the Marlborough were now heading for them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HARRY leant over the side. The arc of the tumblehome made it hard to see, but he suspected that at least some of the lower por-tlids had been opened.
‘Captain Griffiths,’ said Colpoys, making his way down to the quarterdeck, ‘I want the marines to put a salvo into the water in front of those boats. Get the swine to sheer off. If they don’t oblige, aim for those damned delegates with the second round.’
The orders were repeated to the marine officers, who stood alongside the party on the poop, just as the first of the spikes securing one of the hatches was broken off. The rest would follow, and men would begin to pour on to the deck, easily overwhelming the few defenders. Harry could hear the marine officer issuing ever more frantic orders to his men, and looking back saw the first of their muskets clatter to the deck. Several more followed, the owners deserting the poop to go forward to the bows.
Game of Bones Page 10
