Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “Why if the frigate sacrifices himself for the merchantman, we’ll know he’s worth taking. And if that’s so, we may well have a Spaniard on his way to the mines with mercury I don’t have to tell you, that means millions …” His words flew along the gundeck, and soon the gunports were full of men peering ahead, chattering excitedly about their prospects. Another gun sounded above, but a stern chase would be a long one especially as Achilles had no chase guns that would bear so far forward, and with the French coast and safety lying ahead the Spaniard would take his chances.

  The Spanish frigate tacked about; the combined effect of the run downwind and her own working to windward toward them had brought her close—this tack would see her in a position to interpose herself between Achilles and her prey.

  “Stand to your guns!” bawled Binney. Kydd pulled back from the bright daylight into the somber shades of the gundeck. All was in order, and he nodded slowly in satisfaction as he saw gun captains yet again checking carefully the contents of their pouches, the quill tubes to ignite the main charge from the gunlock atop the breech, the spring-loaded powder horn for the priming.

  Kydd had been in ships that had sailed into battle to the sound of stirring tunes from fife and drum, but Achilles went into action in a lethal quiet, every order clear and easy to understand. His stomach contracted—as much as from his delayed breakfast as anything. From his position on the centerline he could see everything that happened inboard, but nothing of the wider sea scene. But he could imagine: Achilles crowding after the merchantman, the frigate coming across between them, and in the best possible position for her—cutting across the bows of the ship-of-the-line and thereby avoiding her crushing broadside, and at the same time her own broadside would be ready to crash into Achilles’s bow and rampage down the full length of the bigger ship.

  A cooler appreciation told him that this was not something that an experienced captain would allow, and Dwyer was nothing if not experienced. Going large, the wind astern, there was the greatest scope for maneuverability, and at the right moment he would haul his wind—wheel around closer to the westerly—to bring his whole broadside to bear on the hapless frigate. They would lose ground on their chase, but …“Starb’d first, then to larb’d,” Binney relayed. On the quarterdeck the captain had his plan complete: it was seldom that a ship fought both sides at once, and here they would be able to have the unengaged side gun crews cross the deck to reinforce those in action. “Mr. Kydd, I want the best gun captains to starb’d, if you please.” Kydd felt the ship turn, the sudden heel making the deck sway before she steadied. He tensed. There was a muffled shout from the main-hatchway, and Binney roared, “Stand by!”

  Kydd braced himself, but these were only twenty-four-pounders; he had served great thirty-twos before now. At the gun closest to him, he saw one of the new hands. His eyes were wild and his legs visibly shaking.

  The distant shout again, and instantly Binney barked, “Fire!”

  The crash of their broadside with its deadly gunflashes playing through the smoke dinned on his ears, the smoke in great quantities filling the air. Up and down the invisible gundeck he heard the bellow of gun captains as they whipped raw gun crews into motion.

  They had got in their broadside first. Such a brutal assault from two whole decks of guns would utterly shatter the frigate—if they had aimed true. Kydd felt Achilles’s stately sway as she resumed her course; this she would not be doing if they had failed.

  “Larb’d guns!” Having blasted the frigate to a standstill, they would cross her bows and in turn deliver a ruinous raking broadside, while at the same time be resuming their pursuit.

  He folded his arms and smiled. There was little for him to do. Poynter and the other quarter-gunners could be relied on to keep up the fire. His duty was for the graver part of an action—if it was hot work, with casualties and damage, Kydd would need a cool mind acting as deputy to the lieutenant of the gundeck, to see through carnage and destruction to deploying men to continue the fight. But there was no chance of that now.

  Reload complete, the crews crossed to larboard and took position. “Stand by!” Gun captains crouched down, the handspikes went to work, the guns steadied and the gunlocks were held to the lanyard. Kydd pitied the helpless frigate somewhere out there on the bright morning sea, knowing what must be coming next.

  A cry from aft, and then Binney’s “Fire!” The broadside smashed out—but a louder, flatter concussion overlaid the sound of the guns. Kydd’s half-raised sleeve was rudely tugged away, sending him spinning to the deck. Then, the tearing screams and cries began. He picked himself up shakily, afraid for what he would see when the smoke cleared. His coat had been ripped right up the sleeve, which dragged useless, and as the smoke gave way he saw a gun now lying on its carriage, split open along its length, the upper portion vanished. Wisps of smoke still hung sullenly over it. A small defect in casting deep within the iron of a gun, perhaps a bubble or streak of slag, had been sought out by the colossal forces of detonation and had failed, the rupture of metal spreading in an instant to burst the gun asunder.

  The cost to its crew was grievous. Those closest had been torn apart, bright scarlet and entrails from the several bloody corpses bedaubing deck and nearby guns, and all around the piteous writhing of others not so lucky, choking out their lives in agony.

  Flying pieces of metal had found victims even at a distance, and sounds of pain and distress chilled Kydd’s blood. Binney stood farther aft, swaying in shock, but he appeared untouched, staring at the slaughter.

  The gundeck had come to a stop, aware of the tragedy forward. Kydd felt for the unfortunates involved, but there was a higher imperative: out there was an enemy not yet vanquished, who could lash back at any time. There was no alternative: organize fire buckets of water to soak away body parts, rig the wash-deck hose to sluice away the blood but, above all, resume the fight. It was the worst possible luck—the easy success against the frigate was just what would have pulled Achilles’s ship’s company together and given point to their exercises, but now, and for a long time after, there would be flinching and dread in gun action.

  Fearfully, the men turned back to their battle quarters. Kydd went to a gunport and looked out. The shattered ruin of the frigate lay dead in the water, falling behind as Achilles remorselessly pursued the merchantman. If their own frigate had stayed with them instead of slipping away during the night, she would be sharing in the prize.

  On deck they would be under a full press of sail; a stuns’l on the sides of every yard, all canvas possible spread, it would be a hard chase. Achilles was not a flyer but, then, neither was the merchantman, and all the time the coast of France was drawing nearer, already a meandering blue line on the horizon.

  It was late afternoon, when the coastline was close enough to make out details, that the drama concluded. On the merchant ship the unwise setting of sail above her royals had its effect: the entire mizzen topmast was carried away, tumbling down with all its rigging in a hopeless ruin. The vessel slewed up into the wind, and within minutes a single fo’c’sle gun on Achilles thumped out and in answer her colors jerked down.

  Even on the main gundeck there was jubilation; a respectably sized prize lay to under their guns, and with not another ship in sight they would not have to share the proceeds. The launch was sent away with an armed party as happy speculation mounted about her cargo. But it was not the mercury, silver and other treasure that fevered imaginations had conjured. When the lieutenant of marines returned, he hailed up at the quarterdeck from the boat: “Sir, I have to report, we’ve captured a Spanish general, Don Esturias de … can’t quite remember his whole name, sir.” There was a rumble of disappointed comment from the mass of men lining the ship’s side. “He’s accompanied by a company of Carabineros Reales,” he added. “And their pay chest.”

  An immediate buzz of interest began, headed off by the captain. “My compliments to Don, er, to the general, and I’d be honored to have him as my guest—”
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  “Sir, the general does not recognize that he’s been defeated in the field. He says—his aide says, sir, that he had no part in his own defense, and therefore he will stay with his faithful soldiers in what they must endure.”

  Dwyer glanced at the first lieutenant with a thin smile. “Do you go to the ship and secure it, the troops to be battened down well—the general, too, if he wants it.”

  “The pay chest, sir?”

  “Leave it where it is for now. Take who you need to fish the mizzen topmast and we’ll have a prize crew ready for you later.”

  A satisfied Achilles shaped course north, into the night. By morning they would have the big French port of Brest under their lee; then it was only a matter of rounding Ushant and a direct course to England.

  During the night, vigilant eyes insured their prize did not stray. The morning light shone on her dutifully to leeward, a heartening sight for the bleary-eyed middle watchmen coming on deck for the forenoon exercise period.

  Just as Brest came abeam and Achilles was deep into three masts of sail drill, their prize fell off the wind, heeling over to starboard and taking up a course at right angles to her previous one—toward the land. Above her stern, the White Ensign of England jerked down, and moments later proud Spanish colors floated triumphantly on the peak halyards.

  It was a bitter blow. The prisoners had risen during the night and taken the ship, but bided their time before completing their break.

  A roar of rage and disappointment arose from Achilles, but the run had been timed well, and it was long minutes before the ship could revert her exercise sail to running before the wind. There was no hope: sail appeared close inshore—it was common to see a French ship fleeing before an English predator, and gunboats were always on hand to usher in the quarry. There was no chance they could haul up to their ex-prize in time. Achilles slewed around to send a frustrated broadside after her and slunk away, rounding irritably on an interested English frigate of the inshore squadron attracted by the gunfire. Yet again, the fortunes of war had conspired against them.

  The next day, in a bitter mood, Achilles sighted the gray point of the Lizard, the most southerly point of England, but Kydd’s spirits soared. It had been so long, so far away, and now he was returning once more to his native soil, to the roots of his existence. It was only a lumpy blue line on the horizon ahead, but it meant so much.

  “Y’r folks are in Scotland, o’ course, Tam,” Kydd offered, seeing a certain distraction on his friend’s face.

  Cockburn didn’t answer at once, seeming to choose his words. “Yes. In Penicuik—that’s Edinburgh.”

  The ship made a dignified bow to one of the last Atlantic rollers coming under her keel; the shorter, busier waves of the Channel produced more of a nodding. There were sails close inshore, coasting vessels carrying most of the country trade of England with their grubby white or red bark-tanned canvas, and occasionally larger deep-sea ships outward bound or arriving after long ocean voyages.

  “You’ll be lookin’ t’ postin’ up, or will ye take the Leith packet?” Kydd hugged to himself the knowledge that Guildford was less than a day away by coach from Portsmouth—and this time he’d travel inside.

  “Perhaps neither. We won’t be at liberty too long, I’ll wager.” He wouldn’t look at Kydd, who suddenly remembered that Cockburn had left his home and family as a midshipman, a future officer, but had yet to make the big step. It would not be a glorious homecoming, without anything to show for his years away, neither promotion nor prize money.

  Impulsively, Kydd tried to reach out. “Ye’ll be welcome t’ come visit the Kydds in Guildford, Tam. We’ve a rare old—”

  “That’s kind in you, Tom, but in Spithead I’ve a mind to petition for transfer to a frigate, if at all possible.”

  There were far better chances for promotion and prizes in a frigate rather than part of a fleet, but Kydd knew that his chances among all the others clamoring for the same thing were not good. He stayed for a space, then said, “Best o’ luck in that, m’ friend,” and went forward. He didn’t want his elation to be spoiled.

  Captain Dwyer paced grimly up and down the quarterdeck. “What is the meaning of that damned Irish pennant?” he snarled at the boatswain, pointing angrily up at a light line tapping playfully high up on the after edge of the main topgallant sail. Welby snapped at the mate-of-the-watch and a duty topman swung into the shrouds and scrambled aloft. It would not do to be laggardly when Dwyer was so clearly in a foul mood.

  Dwyer stopped his pacing, and glared at Binney. “I have it in mind to press some good hands, replace our prize crew.” These would now be in captivity—the lieutenant would in due course be exchanged, but the seamen had nothing but endless years of incarceration ahead, their captors knowing that trained seamen were far more valuable than any soldier to England.

  “Sir.”

  “We haul in one of your fat merchantmen—there, like that one,” he said, gesturing ahead at a large and deep-laden vessel anxiously crowding on all sail to get past the dangers always to be faced at the mouth of the Channel.

  “Inward bound, sir.”

  “Yes!” Dwyer snapped. “You don’t agree?”

  Binney was clearly uneasy at his position. “Well, sir, this one could’ve been on passage six months, a year or more. Who knows what hazards and pains he’s been through? And now, in sight of home, if we then—”

  “A damnation on your niceties, sir!” Dwyer’s face was pale with anger. “We’re at war, it may have escaped your notice. Where else do you propose I get men? The quota? Debtor’s jail?” His glare subsided a little, but his tone remained hard. “You will recollect, our people have been away from England all of two years—are they then to be pitied? No, sir!”

  He thrust his hands behind his back and snapped, “Mr. Binney, I desire you to ready a boarding party to press a dozen hands from that merchantman.” He saw the look on Binney’s face and gave a hard smile. “And I’ll not be satisfied with less, damn it!”

  Kydd sat in the sternsheets of the boat with Binney. Six marines were also crowded into the small space, clutching their muskets and staring out woodenly The bluff-bowed launch met the short, steep waves on her bow, occasionally sending spray aft.

  Kydd looked at Binney: pale-faced and thin-lipped, he was clearly out of sorts. If this was because they would soon be pressing men, Kydd sympathized with his reservations: he had been a pressed man himself. But cruel and inhumane though it might be, the fleet had to be manned at a time when England herself stood in such peril. These merchant seamen had chosen to take the higher pay and quiet life while the navy stood guard over them. Now was the chance for some of them to play a real part.

  The merchant ship had been brought to with a gun, but she affected not to understand and stood on. It had taken dangerous jockeying for the big ship-of-the-line to draw abreast and to windward. This stole the wind from her and at the same time brought her close enough to be within hail. There had been an undignified exchange and another shot ahead of her bowsprit before the vessel had reluctantly gone aback.

  The launch bobbed and jibbed alongside. A rope ladder was finally thrown down and they boarded; the marines were sent up first, and Kydd followed. Heaving himself over the bulwarks, he was confronted by a tight circle of hostile faces. Under the guns of a ship-of-the-line and the stolid line of marines there was no trouble expected, but he watched warily until the boarding party was all on deck.

  Binney introduced himself formally. “Your papers, if you please, Captain,” he added politely.

  “Cap’n Heppel, barque Highlander of Bristol. From Callao, bound f’r London.” He wore an old-fashioned long coat and tricorne, and his tone was frosty as he reluctantly produced the papers. Binney inspected them carefully. Pressing men from ships of the wrong flag could flare up into an international incident with unfortunate consequences for the officer responsible.

  Kydd looked around. A ship always had a domestic individuality that meant everythin
g to a sailor, her little ways at sea, her comfortable smells, the tiny compromises of living. This one had sailed continuously for six months or more; her ropes were hairy with use and her canvas sea-darkened to gray There was evidence of careful repair of sea hurts and hard hours of endurance in some ocean storm far out to sea.

  Binney handed back the papers. “In the name of the King, I ask you will muster your crew, Captain,” he said uncomfortably. “We mean to have a dozen good hands from you.”

  “A dozen!” The owners of a merchant ship always kept crew to a bare minimum, and so many taken would mean grim and exhausting labor to work the ship for those left.

  “Yes, sir. My captain will not allow me to return without them.” Binney was discomfited, but stood by his orders, patiently waiting for a response.

  “It’s an outrage, sir!” Heppel spluttered and moved to confront Binney. Kydd stepped up quietly beside his officer and the marines fingered their muskets. There was nothing this captain could do: under the law the ship could be stripped of all but the mates and apprentices.

  “All hands on deck,” Heppel flung over his shoulder.

  Kydd counted the sailors as they emerged from the hatches—just nineteen. It was impossible to work even a two-watch system with only these. There were more. He looked at Binney, who seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “Come, come, sir, the sooner we have them, the sooner we shall leave.”

  The nineteen were a ragged bunch, their sea gear worn and threadbare from thousands of miles of long voyaging, their bodies hardened and browned. They gazed back warily, stoically.

  “Sir, ye want me t’ go below, rouse ’em out?” Kydd asked loudly. “I know about th’ hidey-holes an’ all the tricks.”

  Binney appeared to be considering Kydd’s words. The best seamen were obviously concealed below, and his hesitation implied that if the navy men were led a merry dance then their officer might vindictively press more than his dozen. He let it hang until more appeared resentfully from below decks, shuffling into the group abaft the mainmast.