Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “Y’r battle, it was a close enough thing, you say,” Kydd said.

  “Elias Petit is no more. A round-shot destroyed him.” The gentle, simple mariner, who has shared their mess in the Artemis, had been slammed across the deck by the impact of the ball, his innards strung out grotesquely.

  Kydd murmured a commiseration.

  “And Joe Farthing lost a leg.” One of the few original Seaflowers, a careful, sober seaman of the best kind, he had been with them in the topsail cutter through all their adventures in the Caribbean. The last Renzi had seen of him was his contorted body carried down to the surgeon’s knife with the ugly obscenity of a long splinter transfixing his limb.

  “But it was a noble victory, Nicholas.”

  “Of course it was, my friend, one that will be talked about for all of time.”

  “Especially your Nelson—boards a ship, takes it, then uses it to board another.”

  “They are calling it ‘Nelson’s Patent Bridge for Boarding First-Rates.’”

  “Aye, and in Gibraltar the toast is ‘To Nelson fill bumbo/For taking Del Mundo.’ Wish ye joy of y’r prize money.”

  Renzi took another puff on his pipe—he had been able to find the tobacco in Lisbon, the light but fragrant Virginia he now favored. “Um, your lady, would it be indelicate of me to ask her particulars?”

  “Ah, yes.” Emily’s image had slipped from Kydd’s mind in the contentment of being at sea once more, but Renzi’s question brought a pang. “She’s very partial to m’ company, Nicholas. We’ve had some rare times visitin’ and sketchin’ all over the Rock.”

  Renzi’s eyebrows rose.

  Kydd’s features took on a bashful cast. “In a cave she kissed me—she wants me, I know it.”

  “And her husband, what is his view of this?”

  Kydd threw him an indignant look. “He’s not t’ be troubled until Emily has settled her mind.”

  “You’ve discussed this?”

  “Not as who should say,” Kydd admitted. “Ladies don’t come to it as fast as we men—they need a bit o’ sea room t’ see where they lies.”

  Renzi considered. Ashore Kydd was an innocent, and he had got entangled with a married woman. It needed circumspection. His instinct to get Kydd away from the situation had been right, and it would be best to let nature take its course, no matter the cost to Kydd in wounded pride.

  The north coast of Africa, low, drab, meandering, with no exciting features in its unrelieved ocher, lay to starboard and would stay there for the next few days. It was the coast of Morocco, Algiers and Tunis—the Barbary Coast that had so often figured in the bloody history of the Mediterranean with slave galleys of Christian captives, unspeakable cruelties and straggling medieval empires. All just a few leagues under their lee.

  “Steer small, blast y’ eyes!” Kydd growled at the helmsman, all too aware of the consequences of falling off course to fetch up on this shore.

  There was little shipping. Trading vessels showed prudence on sighting them; a throng of lateen-sailed feluccas clustered nervously together inshore as they passed, while a pair of xebecs came by from the opposite direction, purposeful and sinister, but showing no interest. They would keep in with the land, sheering out to sea around the fortified coastal cities, conscious that news of an English frigate at large would threaten their mission. But it was an odd feeling, knowing that the coastline to starboard was really the edge of a great desert with the rest of a fabulous continent beyond.

  The forenoon wore on, sparkling seas as gentle and soft as could be wished, and it was pleasant sailing weather in the warm breeze. A point of land on the empty coast approached, and course was altered to keep it at a respectful distance. They slipped past toward the long bay beyond.

  Kydd glanced in the binnacle at the leeward compass to check that the helmsman was being scrupulous in his heading. When his gaze came up, he knew something was amiss. Some indefinable sense told him that all was not right with the world. The ship was on course, all sails drawing well, the watch alert, nothing changed—yet something had.

  His eyes caught those of the lieutenant on watch. In them he saw alarm and incomprehension. Exactly on course and with the same sail set, the frigate was slowing, her pace slackening little by little, no other sensation but a gentle retardation.

  Sinbad. Ali Baba casting a spell on them. Something had got hold of Bacchante and was dragging her back. The hairs on the back of Kydd’s neck prickled; the world was slipping into fantasy. The ship dropped to a crawl, then gently stopped altogether, her sails still taut and drawing. Around the deck men froze.

  A shout came from a seaman, excited, pointing over the side. There was a general rush to see and it became instantly clear what had happened. “We’re hard ’n’ fast on th’ sand!” In the green-brown waters a dusting of sand particles swirled lazily around the length of the hull.

  The officer-of-the-watch blared out orders for the taking in of sail; the creaking masts were straining perilously, but the grounding had been gradual and gentle and, without the inertia of a sudden impact, the spars had been preserved.

  Boatswain’s mates hurried to the hatches, their pipes squealing an urgent summons. Sailors leaped up from below, racing up the shrouds, dousing canvas almost as quick as the yard could be laid, until Bacchante was naked of sail. The pandemonium subsided and the captain threw urgent orders at his ship’s company: grounding a ship brought a court of inquiry, his actions of the next few minutes would determine if it turned into a court-martial, presuming they survived.

  The frigate had just passed abreast of a low point of land to enter the long bay beyond and the chart had promised the usual deep water, but the shifting sands of the desert must have blown out into the sea, forming a wicked spit. The usual lightening of the bottom in shoal water had been obscured by the unlucky proximity of a river in muddy spate after rains, and there had been no warning.

  It was very bad news. The rock-solid deck underfoot indicated that they were firmly aground; everyone knew that there were no tides to speak of in the Mediterranean, no high tide to float them off. Worse, if the French or a Barbary pirate happened along and saw their predicament, they had but to approach by the stern or the bow of the immobile vessel in full scorn of their broadside, which was helplessly facing outward on each side.

  The master was quickly into a boat, and had the hand-lead going steadily as he built up a picture all around the stranded frigate. There would then be only two options: to bump forward over the sandbank, or ease back the way she had come. Soundings confirmed that the shoal shallowed ahead, leaving a heaving-off as the only solution.

  The most urgent necessity was to lay out the kedge anchor in the direction they had come; they would then heave up to it with the full weight of the main capstan. This was the best chance to see the ship into deep water again—it was unlikely she had suffered much in taking the ground in sand.

  The boatswain had Kydd tumbling into the launch with a full crew of oarsmen. This was the biggest boat aboard, and he took the tiller knowing that his task would be to stream the kedge to its full extent. “Out oars, give way together,” he growled, and began a sweep about to pass around Bacchante’s stern to the kedge anchor stowage, atop the sheet anchor.

  “Belay that!” The boatswain’s bellow sounded above. “We takes th’ stream killick!” The stream anchor was ten hundredweight of iron, more than double the sinking weight of the kedge, and would bite well in the shifting sandy seabed. Kydd shoved over the tiller to come up on the stream anchor. Already seamen were at work on the outside stowage, bending on a fore pendant tackle to take the weight of the big anchor while casting off the sea lashings.

  “Oars,” Kydd ordered. There was no point in closing until they were ready aboard the ship. A yardarm stay tackle was secured to a ring stopper and shank bridle, and the tackles were eased off until the anchor was ready to be got off the bows—Kydd kept a comfortable distance while the weight was taken up.

  He watched while a c
apstan bar was fetched and given to a brawny fo’c’sleman on the foredeck. When the big anchor rose to life, he plied it to pry the fluke clear of the timberhead, pivoting the moving anchor around the other fluke resting on the billboard.

  This was the moment Kydd had been waiting for. The massive anchor now lay suspended and clear of the ship’s side, the imperfections and hammer marks of the forge visible in the black iron swaying so close above him. He stood in the sternsheets, bringing the boat carefully closer and to seaward. “Cast y’r bight!” A stout painter was passed around the throat at the base of the anchor, and paid out. Kydd’s arm shot up as a signal, and the anchor started to dip into the sea, sliding in until only the broad wooden stock and ring showed. Another painter secured on the shank was quickly brought into the boat, and the most difficult part of the exercise approached.

  Eased down, the anchor disappeared into the sea, but the first painter was heaved up on the opposite side of the boat. “Right glad it ain’t a bower,” muttered one seaman—a bower anchor was four times the size and another boat and sweaty labor indeed would have been needed to handle it.

  The shank painter brought the stock of the anchor close and, working together, the two lines eventually persuaded the anchor to come to rest beneath the boat, hauled athwart the bottom, only the shank above water. The launch settled low in the water under the weight, the painters were secured to each other and they were ready.

  Kydd again held up his arm, and the fall of the stay tackle was eased away until the boat had the full weight. Kydd’s eyes darted around the boat—the dripping lines seemed in order, straining over the gunwales. He slid out his knife and, with a sailor gripping his belt, leaned far out and down into the water to get at the seizing of the suspending hawser. A vigorous sawing, and the thick rope fell free.

  The deep-laden boat moved sluggishly; Kydd’s men tugged at the oars with ponderous results. The sun was now uncomfortably high. They passed heavily down the length of the ship and, as they reached the stern, the end of a deep-sea lead line was thrown to them. This would be their measure of where to let the anchor go, and Kydd cleared it watchfully over the transom as they crabbed their way through the wind and waves.

  He glanced back. A cable was being lowered through the mullioned windows of the captain’s cabin into the smaller cutter; no doubt it would pass into the ship in a direct line to the lower capstan. That way, there would be opportunity to man the capstans on both decks, doubling the force.

  The cutter made good progress, and by the time the lead-line suddenly tautened, the cable was on hand, fully extended and ready to seize to the big forged-iron ring of the anchor. There was no need to wait for a signal from the ship. Kydd took up a boarding axe, and brought it down on the painters straining across the boat.

  The severed ropes whipped away, and with a mighty bounce of the boat at the relieved buoyancy, the anchor plunged down. Now it was the turn of others—Kydd knew that the capstans would be manned by every possible soul. Bleakly, he reminded himself of the penalties if they could not win the ship back to deep water.

  Laying on their oars, the aching men in the launch waited and watched. The martial sounds of fife and drum sounded faintly; every effort was being made to whip them into a frenzy of effort. Time wore on, but Bacchante was not advancing to her anchor. Uneasily, Kydd threw a glance at the shore. The skyline was reassuringly innocent, but for how long?

  The sun beat down. A peculiar smell—goats, dryness, sand—came irregularly on the light breeze that fluffed the sea into playful wavelets. It was peaceful in the boat, which was hardly moving in the slight sea, just the odd creak and chuckle of water.

  The recall came after another twenty minutes. Kydd did not envy the captain in his decision—the ship was not moving. The next act would be to start water casks over the side, perhaps even the guns. And that would certainly mean the end of their mission, even if the move was successful.

  Coming aboard again, Kydd could feel the tension. The captain was in earnest discussion with his officers on the quarterdeck. Renzi was there also; he regarded Kydd gravely, then cocked an eye at the shore. Kydd saw that the low scrubby dunes were now stippled with figures.

  “Moors—the Bedoo of the desert,” Renzi murmured, as Kydd took in the exotic scene; camels, strings of veiled Arabs still as statues, staring at the ship and more arriving.

  Forward, men were grouping nervously. Everyone knew the consequences of being taken on the Barbary Coast. Renzi pursed his lips. “It’s not the Bedoo that should concern us,” he muttered. “They can’t get to us without boats. But your Moorish corsair, when he has his friends, and they make a sally together …”

  The worried knot of officers around the captain seemed to come to a decision. Stepping clear of them, the boatswain lifted his call, but thought better of it, merely summoning the captain of the hold, a senior petty officer. “Start all th’ water over the side,” he ordered. Tons of fresh water gurgled into the scuppers from the massive leaguer casks swayed up from the hold.

  “Rig guns to jettison.” Murmuring from forward was now punctuated with protests, angry shouts following the gunner’s party as they moved to each gun, knocking free the cap squares holding the trunnion to the carriage and transferring the training tackle to the eyebolt above the gunport. Now it only needed men hauling on the side tackles and, with handspikes levering, the freed gun would tumble into the sea—and they would be defenseless.

  A shout from a sharp-eyed sailor, who had seen something above the dunes along the coast, stopped progress. It rounded the point and hove to several miles off; twin lateen sails and a long, low hull gave no room for conjecture. “We’re dished,” said Kydd, in a low voice. “There’ll be others, and when they feel brave enough they’ll fall on us.” Another vessel, and then another hauled into view.

  The captain’s face was set and pale as he paced. The master went to him diffidently, touching his hat. “Sir, the ship settles in th’ sand—if it gets a grip even b’ inches, the barky’ll leave her bones here.” He hesitated. “I saw how Blonde frigate won free o’ the Shipwash.”

  “Go on.”

  “They loose all sail, but braces to bring all aback—every bit o’ canvas they had. Then ship’s comp’ny takes as many round shot as they c’n carry, doubles fr’m one side o’ the deck to the other ’n’ back. Th’ rhythm breaks suction an’ the ship makes a sternboard ’n’ gets off.”

  With a fleeting glance at the gathering predators, the captain told him, “Do it, if you please.”

  The master went to the wheel. “I takes th’ helm. Kydd, you’re th’ lee helmsman.” Kydd obediently took position and waited. Sail appeared, mast by mast, hesitantly, shrouds and stays tested for strain at the unaccustomed and awkward situation of the wind taking the sails on the wrong side.

  “Mark my motions well. When we move, it’ll be dead astern, an’ if we mishandle, we’ll sheer around an’ it’ll all be up wi’ us,” the master warned. A ship going backward would put prodigious strain on the rudder, and if they lost control it would slew sideway and slam the wind to the opposite side of the sails. At the very least this would leave Bacchante with broken rigging, splintered masts and the impossibility of getting away from the gathering threat.

  Kydd gripped the spokes and stared doggedly at the master. His job, as leeward helmsman, was to add his weight intelligently to the effort of the lead helmsman, and he knew this would be a fight to remember.

  Shot was passed up from the lockers in the bowels of the ship, each man taking two eighteen-pound balls. “One bell to be ready, the second and you’re off,” the first lieutenant called from the belfry forward.

  One strike: the men braced. Another—they rushed across the deck, more perhaps of a reckless waddle. They turned, and the bells sounded almost immediately. They rushed back. Some saw the humor of the situation and grinned, others remained straight-faced and grave.

  Twice more they ran. Kydd snatched a glimpse up at the bulging, misshapen sails flut
tering and banging above; the men were panting now. The boatswain had a hand-lead over the side, and was staring grimly at its steady vertical trend.

  Near him Kydd could hear a deep-throated creaking amid the discordant chorus of straining cordage. He dared not look away—the moment, if it came, would come suddenly. The bells and thumping feet sounded again—and again.

  The deck shifted under Kydd’s feet, an uneven rumbling from deep within, and the boatswain’s triumphant shout: “She swims!”

  Forced by the wind, the frigate started to slide backward. The wheel lacked viciously as the rudder was caught on its side. The master threw himself at the wheel to wind on opposite helm, Kydd straining with him, following his moves to within a split second. The pressure eased, but the ship increased speed backward, at the same time multiplying the danger in proportion.

  The master’s lean face became haggard with strain and concentration as together they fought the ship clear. A fraction of inattention or misreading of the thrumming pressures transmitted up the tiller ropes and at this speed they would slew broadside in an instant.

  The rumbling stopped—they must be clear of the sand. Orders pealed out that had canvas clewed up, yards braced around and a slowing of their mad backward rampage. The master’s eyes met Kydd’s, and he smiled. “That’s cutting a caper too many f’r me,” he said, in a gusty breath of relief.

  Kydd returned a grin, but he held to his heart that this fine mariner had called on him, Thomas Kydd, when he needed a true seaman alongside.

  The beat north through the Adriatic was an anticlimax. After rewatering from a clear stream on the remote west coast of Sardinia, they had thankfully rounded Malta and Sicily at night, through the Strait of Otranto and on into the Adriatic. The stranding had not had any observable ill effects.

  They now flew the red swallowtail of Denmark. It was unlikely that any French at sea would interfere with a touchy Scandinavian of a country they were in the process of wooing into their fold. In the event, they saw no French. But they did, to Kydd’s considerable interest, sight all manner of exotic Mediterranean craft. Built low but with a sharply rising bow in line with sea conditions in the inland sea, there was the three-masted bark, with its canted masts, lateen sails and beak instead of a bowsprit; the pink, which could use the triangular lateen sail interchangeably with the familiar square sail on its exotically raked masts, and the more homely tartan coaster.