Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  Bacchante glided into Rosia Bay, striking her sails smartly and losing no time in sending her important guest ashore. Achilles was not at anchor, and Kydd learned that she was in Morocco, at Tetuan for watering.

  The mate-of-the-watch had little to do in harbor, and after Renzi had seen to the brief ceremony attending the captain going ashore, he reflected on what had come to pass. There was no doubt that he had made the right decision regarding his future: he had served his sentence fully and he could take satisfaction not only in this but in the fact that he had been not unsuccessful in his adopted profession. Yet the thought of returning to his inheritance, to the confining, predictable and socially circumscribed round, was a soul-deadening prospect after vast seascapes, far shores and the sensory richness of a sea life.

  He reviewed the years of friendship he had enjoyed. Not just the times of shared danger, but golden memories of a night watch under the stars far out in the Pacific, with a silver moonpath glittering. Or when he had mischievously taken a contrary stand on some matter of philosophy simply to have Kydd find within himself some sturdy rejoinder, some expression of his undeniable strength of character.

  He burned at the remembrance of the logical outworking of one line of philosophy that, but for Kydd, would have seen him end his days in the savagery of a South Sea island. Other instances came to mind, the totality of which led to an inevitable conclusion.

  In his core being, he must still be the tempestuous soul he always had been, and his carefully nurtured rationality was an insufficient control. He needed Kydd’s strength, his straight thinking to keep him stable and, dare he say? the regard that Kydd obviously had for him. Now it was no longer there, only a lowering bleakness.

  Then, breaking through his thoughts, he saw a figure slowly emerge on deck from the main hatchway. Rigged once more as a master’s mate in breeches and full coat, Kydd looked pale and his movements were deliberate. He came aft to report, as was his duty.

  “Steppin’ ashore, Nicholas.”

  “Er, I wish you well of—”

  “That’s kind in ye,” Kydd replied. Both men knew there was nothing Renzi could do in a matter of honor: the kindest thing was to be absent when the inevitable final scene took place.

  “Then I’ll be away,” Kydd said. He held his head high as he stepped over the bulwarks and down to the boat.

  It stroked lazily toward Ragged Staff steps; Kydd did not look back. Renzi watched until he was out of sight. A vindictive husband, who wanted to take a full measure of revenge, could make Kydd pay a terrible price for his foolishness.

  Kydd returned before the end of Renzi’s duty watch. The warm dusk had also seen Achilles put back into Gibraltar. “Nicholas, do ye have time?”

  Renzi’s relief was already on deck, so they went to the main-shrouds, out of earshot of the one or two on deck aft. Renzi looked keenly at Kydd.

  “It was th’ damnedest thing, Nicholas,” Kydd said, in a low voice. He looked around suspiciously, but no one was anywhere near. “M’ letter—y’ remember? Well, seems that Consuela—that’s Mrs. Mulvany’s maid I gave m’ letter to—she gets it all wrong ’n’ thinks it’s her the letter’s for, there bein’ no names in it a-tall, an’ there she is, waitin’ for me when I gets ashore.”

  “So you’ve been spared the whip?” Renzi said dryly.

  Kydd colored. “I have—but it’s to cost me five silver dollars to buy the letter back,” he said, “and when I went t’ Emily’s house, her husband was in, invited me t’ dinner, even.” His face fell. “But when I wanted t’ see Emily—say my farewells afore we return to England—seems she was unwell an’ couldn’t see me.”

  “Unfortunate,” murmured Renzi. Then he straightened. “You’re sailing tonight.”

  “F’r England,” Kydd replied, but there was no happiness in his voice.

  “Bacchante goes to Lisbon where I rejoin my ship,” Renzi said. “I—I’m not sanguine that we shall meet again soon, my dear friend.” It were best the parting were not prolonged.

  “Ye could be sent back t’ Portsmouth f’r a docking,” Kydd said forlornly.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Renzi replied softly. “Thomas, be true to yourself always, brother, and we shall see each other—some time.”

  “An’ you as well, Nicholas. So it’s good-bye, m’ friend.” The handshake lingered, then Kydd turned and went.

  Achilles stood out into the broad Atlantic, questing for the trade westerlies, the reliable streams of air that blew ceaselessly across thousands of miles of ocean to provide a royal highway straight to England.

  She soon found them, and shaped course northward. The winds so favorable on her larboard quarter also formed a swell that came in, deep and regular, under her old-fashioned high stern. Up and up it rose, angling the rest of the ship over to starboard and steeply down into the trough ahead. Then, when the swell reached the midpoint of the vessel, her bow rose, bowsprit clawing the sky, and her stern fell precipitously away while, with a sudden jerk, she rolled back to larboard. To a seaman it was instinctive. The fine sailing in these regular seas was easy, the motion predictable. The only concern was that the winds might die away to a tedious flat amble.

  These spirited seas saw Achilles at her best, an energetic, seething wake stretching away astern, flecks of foam driven up by her bluff bows flying aft to wet the lips of the watch-on-deck with salt, the bright sun casting complex, hypnotically moving, shadows of sails and rigging on the decks.

  But there were those aboard who did not appreciate the Atlantic Ocean in springtime. Huddled over the bulwarks in the waist, sprawling on the foredeck in seasick misery, were the quota men who had exchanged the debtor’s jail for a life at sea and others who had never had a say in their fate.

  The run north was a time of trial and terror for these land creatures. Forced to overcome their seasickness, they learned an eternal lesson of the sea: no matter the bodily misery, the task is always seen through to its right true end, then belayed and squared away. There were some who prevailed over their soft origins and won through to become likely sailors, but there were more who would be condemned forever to be no more than brute laborers of the sea.

  By contrast the mariners had their sea ways; the carefully fashioned lids over their oaken grog tankards against slop from the surging movement, the lithe motion as they got up from the mess tables and swayed sinuously along in unconscious harmony with the sea’s liveliness, chin-stays down on their tarpaulin hats while aloft. There were an uncountable number of tiny details, the sum of which set on one side those who were true sea dwellers, who knew the sea as a home and not as a frightening and unnatural perversion of human existence.

  In the several days it took to pass northward along the Portuguese and Spanish coasts and make landfall on Finisterre, Achilles tried hard to return to her character as a true man-o’-war after a long and corrosive confinement in port.

  “God rot ’em, but they’re a pawky lot o’ lobcocks!” Poynter, quarter-gunner, glared at the gun’s crew standing sweaty and weary after unaccustomed work at training and side tackle on the cold iron.

  Kydd could only agree. As master’s mate, he was essentially deputy to the lieutenant of the gundeck and had a definite interest in excellence at their gunnery. “Keep ’em at it, Poynter, the only way.”

  Hands were stood down from their exercise only when at seven bells the pipe for “hands to witness punishment” was made. The familiar ritual brought men up into the sunlight to congregate in a sullen mass at the forward end of the quarterdeck. Officers stood on the poop while the gratings were rigged below, in front of the men. Kydd stood between, and to the side.

  This was not a happy ship: the combination of a God-fearing captain of dour morals and a boatswain whose contempt for the men found expression in harshness gave little scope for compassion.

  Kydd glanced far out to seaward, where a light frigate was keeping loose station on them for the run to Portsmouth. She made much of being under topsails only to stay wit
h Achilles’s all plain sail. Kydd had known service in a frigate, in his eyes a more preferable ship, but they seldom rated a master’s mate.

  “Same ones,” Cockburn murmured, bringing Kydd’s attention back to the flogging and the three pathetic quota men whose crime was running athwart Welby’s hawse yet again. The captain’s bushy gray eyebrows quivered in the wind, his eyes empty and merciless as he judged and sentenced.

  The boatswain’s mate waited for the first man to be seized up to the grating, then stepped across. He pulled the lash from the red baize bag and measured up to his task. The marine drummer took position directly above the half-deck, looking inquiringly at Captain Dwyer. In expectation the rustle of whispers and movement stilled—but into the silence came a low sobbing, wretched and hopeless.

  “Good God!” Kydd breathed. It was the scraggy little man at the gratings, his pale body heaving in distress.

  The boatswain’s mate stopped in astonishment, then looked at the captain. Dwyer’s eyebrow rose, and he turned to Welby, nodding once.

  “Do yer dooty then, Miller,” Welby threw at his mate in satisfaction. The drum thundered, and stopped. In the sickening silence the cat swept down, bringing a hopeless squeal of pain. Kydd looked away This was achieving nothing, neither individual respect for discipline nor a cohering deference for justice in common. Lashes were laid on pitilessly. The ship’s company watched stolidly. This was the way it was, and no amount of protest could change it.

  Kydd scanned the mass of men. He noticed Farnall, the educated quota man who’d had a run-in with Boddy when he first came aboard. Farnall’s face showed no indication of disgust or hatred, more a guarded, speculative look.

  The contrast between the grim scenes on the upper deck and the fellowship at the noon meal directly afterward brought a brittle gaiety. Grog loosened tongues and the satisfaction of like company quickly had the crowded mess tables in a buzz of companionable talk and laughter.

  Kydd always took a turn along the main deck before his own dinner; after overseeing the issue of grog to the messes, he had an implied duty to bear complaints from the men aft, but the real reason was that he enjoyed the warm feeling of comradeship of the sailors at this time, and he could, as well, try the temper of the men by their chatter.

  He passed down the centerline of the ship, the sunlight patterning down through the hatchway gratings, the odor of the salt pork and pease filling the close air of the gundeck. Today there were not the lowered voices, glaring eyes or harsh curses that usually preceded trouble, and he guessed that the useless quota hand had gained few friends.

  “Jeb.” He nodded at a nuggety able seaman, who grinned back, winking his one remaining eye. No bad blood, it seemed. This was a man Kydd had seen to it drew duty as captain of the heads after he had found him asleep in the tops. He could have taken the man before the captain for a serious offense, but instead he was cleaning the seats of ease each morning before the hands turned to.

  As Kydd came abreast the next pair of guns, a seaman got to his feet, hastily bolting a mouthful. It was Boddy. “First Sunday o’ the month, next,” he said significantly.

  “Aye,” said Kydd, guessing what was coming.

  “An’ I claims ter shift mess inter number six st’b’d.”

  Kydd pursed his lips. “They’ll have ye?” It was the right of every man to choose his messmates—and they him. The first Sunday of the month was when moves were made. What was a puzzle was that this was Farnall’s mess, a landman’s refuge, and he’d heard that Boddy and Farnall had tangled in Gibraltar. He took out his notebook. “I’ll see first luff knows,” he said.

  The indistinct blue-gray bluff of Finisterre left astern, Achilles plunged and rolled on into the Bay of Biscay. Kydd’s heart was full: they were bound for England, to his home and hearth for the first time after years that had seen him on a world voyage in a famous frigate, in the Caribbean as a quartermaster in a trim little topsail cutter and a full master’s mate in a 64-gun ship-of-the-line. He would return to Guildford, a man of some consequence. “Back to th’ fleet—no chance of prize money there,” he said to Cockburn, a grin belying his words.

  The day faded to a brisk evening, then night. The frigate had been called to heel, and her lights twinkled and appeared over to larboard in the moonless dusk. Last-dog-watchmen were called, hammocks piped down and the watch-on-deck mustered. Achilles sailed into the night, her watch expecting an uneventful time. The frigate’s lights faded ahead before midnight, but an alert lookout sighted them an hour or two later on the opposite side, creeping back companionably.

  The morning watch was always a tense time, for enemy ships could appear out of the cold dawn light and fall upon an unprepared vessel. As with most naval vessels, Achilles met the dawn at quarters, ready for any eventuality. A ship-of-the-line with a frigate in company had little to fear, and as the light of day gradually extended, the boredom of waiting saw gun crews dozing, watch-on-deck relaxed, captain not on deck.

  The situation caught everyone by surprise. In the strengthening light the comfortable but indistinct loom of the frigate to starboard resolved by degrees into a much larger ship, farther off. Eastman, the master, snatched the night glass from Binney, the officer-of-the-watch, and sighted on the vessel. “Blast m’ eyes if that ain’t a Mongseer!” he choked. The telescope wavered slightly. “An’ another comin’ up fast!”

  Binney snatched the glass back. “The captain,” he snapped, to a gaping midshipman.

  Kydd crossed to the ship’s side and strained to make out the scene. The larger vessel, ship-rigged and just as large as Achilles, was making no moves toward them. The tiny sails beyond were the other ship that Eastman had spotted.

  “Mr. Binney?” Dwyer was breathless and in his night attire.

  “Sir, our frigate is not in sight. The lights we saw during the night were this Frenchman, who it seems thought ours were, er, some other. There’s another of ’em three points to weather.” He handed the telescope over.

  The morning light was strengthening rapidly and it was possible to make out details. “Frenchy well enough,” Dwyer murmured. As he trained the telescope on the ship, her masts began to close, her length foreshorten. “She’s woken up—altering away.”

  “Off ter get with the other ’un,” offered someone.

  “Yeeesss, I agree,” Dwyer said, and handed back the telescope. “Bear up, Mr. Binney, and we’ll go after him.” He turned to the master. “What’s our offing from the French coast?”

  “About twelve leagues, sir.” Nigh on forty miles; but no ports of consequence near. The captain’s eyes narrowed, then he shivered and hurried below.

  Kydd clattered down the main hatchway; his place at quarters was the guns on the main deck forward, under Binney. The captain and his officers were now closed up on the quarterdeck, so he and Binney could assume their full action positions.

  Low conversations started among the waiting gun crews: a weighing of chances, exchanging of verbal wills, a comparative estimate of sailing speeds—the age-old prelude to battle. Kydd grimaced at the sight of the new hands, nervously chattering and fiddling with ropes. Mercifully, the course alteration to eastward was downwind, the complex motion of before was now a gentle rise and fall as she paced the waves. The landmen would at least have a chance of keeping their footing.

  One had the temerity to ask Poynter their chances. He stroked his jaw. “Well, m’ lad, seein’ as we’re outnumbered two ter one, can’t say as how they’re so rattlin’ good.” The man turned pale. “Should give it away, but the cap’n, bein’ a right mauler, jus’ won’t let ’em go, we has ter go ’em even if it does fer us …” He drew himself up, and scowled thunderously at the man. “An’ you’ll be a-doin’ of yer dooty right ter the end, now, won’t yez?”

  Kydd himself was feeling the usual qualms and doubts before an action, and when the man looked away with a sick expression, he smiled across at him encouragingly. There was no response.

  “Hey, now!” An excited cry ca
me from one of a gun crew peering out of a gunport. “She ain’t French, she’s a Spaniard!”

  Kydd pushed his way past the crew and took a look. The larger vessel, stern to, had just streamed the unmistakable red and yellow of the Spanish sea service. At the same time, he saw that she had not pulled away—but the other ship was much nearer, as tight to the wind as she could.

  Poynter appeared next to Kydd, eagerly taking in the scene. Kydd glanced at him. His glittering, predatory eyes and fierce grin was peculiarly reassuring. “Ha!” Poynter snarled in triumph. “Yer sees that? She ain’t a-flyin’ a pennant—she’s a merchant jack is she, the fat bastard!” The stern-on view of the ship had hidden her true character, but Poynter had spotted the obvious.

  It seemed that on deck they had come to the same conclusion, for above their heads there was a sudden bang and reek of powder-smoke as a gun was fired to leeward to encourage the Spaniard to strike her colors. Binney couldn’t resist, and came over to join them at the gunport. “She’s a merchantman, you say.”

  “She is,” said Poynter, who saw no reason why he should enlighten an officer.

  The fleeing ship did not strike, and Kydd saw why: the other ship, the frigate, coming up fast must be her escort. The odds were now reversed, however. He did not envy the decision the frigate must take: to throw herself at a ship-of-the-line, even if of the smallest type, or to leave the merchantman to her fate. A frigate escort for just one merchant ship would see them safe against most, but a lone ship-of-the-line on passage would not be expected.

  “We’ll soon see if we win more than a barrel of guineas in prize money,” Binney said significantly.

  This drew Poynter’s immediate interest. “How so—sir?”