Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd’s thoughts stole away to his own ocean voyaging. These men had lived closely together, through dangers and hardships that, over the months at sea, would have forged deep respect and friendships the like of which a landlubber would never know—and now it would be ended, broken.

  Stepping forward, Binney addressed them. “Now, my men, is there any among you who wish to serve England in the King’s Service? As a volunteer, you are naturally entitled to the full bounty.”

  This was a threat as much as a promise. Unless they volunteered, they would be pressed, and then they would neither get a bounty nor would see much liberty ashore.

  Three moved forward. Kydd guessed the others did not join them because of the belief that if they were later caught deserting, volunteers would be treated more harshly as having accepted money; the others could plead, with some justification, that they had been forced against their will.

  “Come on, lads, Achilles is only bound f’r Spithead an’ a docking. Y’re volunteers, an’ there could be liberty t’ spend y’r bounty. Good place f’r a spree, Portsmouth Point.”

  Another moved over. The rest shuffled sullenly together.

  “So. This means eight pressed men. Now who’s it to be?” Binney was not to be put off by the stony hostility he met, and pointed to one likely looking young able seaman.

  “Apprentice!” snapped Heppel.

  “Y’r protection, if y’ please,” Kydd said heavily, holding out his hand for the paper. A weak explanation for the absence of papers died at Kydd’s uncompromising stare.

  The rest were quickly gathered in: There were several prime seamen who could look forward to a petty officers berth if they showed willing, but one had Kydd’s eyes narrowing—a sea lawyer, if he wasn’t mistaken, probably a navy deserter who would give a “purser’s name,” a false name, to the muster-book and would likely be the focus of discontents on the lower deck.

  “Get y’r dunnage then,” Kydd told the new-pressed hands. They went below to fetch their sea chests and ditty bag of small treasures, all they had to show for their endless months at sea.

  Binney signaled to Achilles. The cutter would take the chests and sea gear to their new home. “Thank you, Captain,” he said courteously. “We’ll be on our way now.”

  Heppel said nothing, but his fists bunched.

  “Ah—ye’d be makin’ up the pay, Cap’n?” Kydd asked quietly. It would suit some captains conveniently to forget wages for pressed long-voy age men and pocket the sum; it was the least Kydd could do to insure they were not robbed.

  “Haven’t the coin,” Heppel said truculently.

  “Then we’ll accept a note against the owners,” Binney responded smoothly, and folded his arms to wait.

  The press catch mollified Dwyer—they were all seamen and would not take long to become effective in their posts. Achilles got under way and, with the brisk northeasterly, stood out into the Channel for the long board to Spithead.

  On the quarterdeck the atmosphere improved and Dwyer could be seen chatting amicably to the midshipmen. He turned leisurely to the officer-of-the-watch. “Should you sight a fisherman, we’ll take some fish for the people.”

  “A pilchard boat, sir,” the officer-of-the-watch reported later. The boat bobbed and dipped in the steep mid-Channel waves. Faces turned to watch the big warship approach and come aback as she drifted down on the fishing boat.

  “A Frenchy, sir.”

  “The fish tastes the same, does it not?” Dwyer asked. It was an unwritten custom not to interfere with the fisheries, for among other things fishermen could be sources of intelligence. “Pass the word for Mr. Eastman.”

  The master was a Jerseyman and knew the Brittany language like a native. “Tell ’em we’d be interested in a few baskets of pilchards if the price is right, if you please.”

  The transaction was soon completed. It was more profitable to tranship a catch at sea and continue fishing. The master leaned over the rail, gossiping amiably as baskets of fish were swayed inboard. He straightened abruptly. A few tense sentences were exchanged and then he strode rapidly over to Dwyer and whispered something urgently to him. Conversations died away as curious faces turned toward them.

  Eastman returned quickly to the ship’s side and spoke to the old fisherman again. Then he returned to Dwyer, his face grave. Dwyer hesitated and the two went below, leaving an upper deck seething with rumor.

  “Mr. Kydd! Mr. Kydd, ahoy—lay aft, if you please.” Binney’s hail cut through Kydd’s speculations about the situation with the boatswain and he went aft to the helm, touching his hat to the lieutenant.

  “We are to attend the captain in his cabin,” Binney said shortly, turning on his heel. Kydd followed into the cabin spaces. Strangely, the marine sentry had moved from his accustomed place at the door to the captain’s day cabin and had taken position farther forward. Binney knocked and, at the brisk “Enter,” tucked his hat under his arm and opened the door. In the spacious cabin Dwyer and the master stood waiting.

  “I have your word of Kydd’s reliability,” Dwyer said curtly, looking at Binney.

  “Why, yes, sir, he is—”

  “Very well.” Dwyer looked disturbed, even hunted. “What I have to say, you will swear not to divulge to a soul aboard this ship.” He looked first at Kydd, then Binney.

  “Sir.” Wary and tense, Binney spoke for both of them.

  Dwyer’s eyes flicked once more to Kydd. Then he said, “The fisherman has sure knowledge of a danger to the realm that in all my experience I can say has never before threatened these islands.” He took a deep breath. “The fleet at Spithead has refused duty and is now in a state of open mutiny. There is a red flag over every ship and they have set at defiance both the Admiralty and the Crown.” He wiped his brow wearily. “The fisherman cannot be expected to know details, but he swears all this is true.”

  Kydd went cold. The navy—the well-loved and sure shield of the nation—infected with mad revolution, Jacobin plots? It was a world turned upside down.

  “By God’s good grace, we have been spared blundering into the situation, but we have to know more.”

  “The Plymouth squadron, sir?” The forward base was nearest the main French naval strength at Brest.

  “He’s not sure, but thinks they may have gone over to their brethren.” Dwyer looked at the master.

  “Near as I c’d make out, sir.”

  Dwyer paused. “I cannot risk this ship being overrun by mutineers. This is why I have sent for you, Mr. Binney. I understand you come from these parts?”

  “Yes, sir. Our estate is in south Devon, some small ways east of Plymouth.”

  “Good. I desire you to land at a point on the coast with Plymouth near at hand, such that within a day you may enter the port in a discreet manner and make contact with the true authority, then to withdraw and report back to me. Now, do you know how this may safely be done?”

  Binney hesitated for a moment. Desperate mutineers would make short work of him if he was caught.

  He requested a chart. It was the standard approach to Plymouth, and he quickly found his place. “Sir, to the east.”

  “Wembury?”

  “No, sir, that has an army garrison. Farther to the east, past the Mewstones,” Binney said, bringing to mind the sea mark of unusual conical rocks to the southeast of the port. “Along the coast four or five miles. If I land here—” he indicated a small river estuary “—I’m out of sight on all sides, out in the country. I strike north about two hours and reach Ivybridge. This is on the highway and the posting house for the last change of horses before Plymouth, and there I can ride the Exeter stage into Plymouth.”

  “This seems a good plan. Well done, Mr. Binney.”

  Eastman took a closer look at the chart. “Hmmm, the Yealm and then the river Erme. Suggest you take the four-oared gig in, under sail.”

  “That will do—it’s sand, and I’d be satisfied to reach as far up as Holbeton.”

  “Kydd, boat’s crew. Thi
s is you and …?”

  “Poynter, sir, gunner’s mate. An’ one other. Let me think on it, sir.”

  Dwyer appeared satisfied. “So we’ll raise the coast at dawn, send the boat away, and hope to have you back before dark?”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” said Binney quietly.

  “Then I don’t have to remind you all that if this terrible news gets abroad …”

  In the chill of early dawn, Achilles stood in for the river Erme. The gray, formless land firmed and revealed its rugged character. It was strange to be so close to a perilous shore from which a big ship would normally keep well clear. Sails were backed and within minutes the gig had touched water. Binney and Kydd, with Poynter and a seaman, boarded and set the lug foresail and mizzen to bellying life.

  As Achilles got under way to assume position out to sea, the gig headed inshore. It was clear that Binney knew where he was. The small river estuary ending in a wide flat sprawl of sandy channels met the sea between a pair of bluffs. Binney took the biggest channel, following its sinuous course upstream, past dark woods, some isolated dwellings, steep pastoral idylls and at one point wispy effluvia of a lime kiln.

  It was dreamlike in the early morning to be passing from the vastness and power of the open sea to the enfolding quiet so close to the depths of the lovely English countryside, the farmland, grazing animals, orchards—and in a ship’s boat. The smell of wildflowers, cows, cut hay and sun-warmed soil turned Kydd’s mind irresistibly to memories of his youth and past summers in Guildford. It was difficult to reconcile where they were to the actuality of what they were doing.

  “Damn,” muttered Binney; the boat had touched sand. Poynter poled off with the boat hook. The wind localized, becoming fluky and light; the sails were doused and oars shipped. Later the sand turned to flecked silt and then to dark mud, and it was at this point that Binney put the tiller over and brought their inland voyage to an end.

  “Yarnink Nowle,” Binney announced, coming up to a decaying timber landing place. It took Kydd some moments to realize that the words meant the place, not an order. It was a quiet wood down to the water’s edge; a rough path headed steeply up out of sight into it. “Kydd, with me, you men stay with the boat.”

  Kydd climbed over the gunwale and for the first time since Gibraltar had the good earth under his feet. They trudged up the steep, sinuous path, Binney leading and dressed in nondescript coat and breeches, while Kydd followed in as non-sea rig as he had been able to find.

  They left the wood to cross deep green fields with curious sheep, and Kydd looked at Binney, worried. “The crew’ll hear of th’ mutiny fr’m the folks hereabouts.”

  Binney flashed a grin. “Not here they won’t. They know the navy and the press-gang in this part o’ the world—they’ll keep well away.” Kydd thought of the hard-faced Poynter, and grinned back.

  They crossed another field, ignoring a gaping milkmaid, and arrived at the back of a thatched-roof farmhouse. A dog barked once, then approached to nuzzle at Binney; a leather-gaitered yeoman appeared at the noise and stopped in surprise at seeing Binney. “Well, whot be doing yer, Maister Binney?”

  Binney smiled. “Is Jarge going for the post this morning?”

  “Eys, ’ee be saddlin’ up thikky donkey.”

  Binney glanced triumphantly at Kydd. “Nothing changes in the country—we’ll be riding to Ivybridge.”

  Sitting on the end of the farm trap with legs dangling as it ground bumpily over the country track, Binney was youthfully spirited, nervous tension working with pleasure at the unexpected return to his roots.

  It was not far to Ivybridge. They passed two tiny villages on the well-worn road to the north and suddenly reached a crossroads. They dropped to the road from the trap, dusting down, and let the mystified farmer continue on his way.

  Binney took a deep breath. “The London Inn—over by the river. The Exeter mail should be along by ten.” A soft whispering on the morning breeze strengthened until they reached its cause, the Erme River, a crystal clear boisterous rushing over moss-green rocks.

  The beauty and settled loveliness of the tiny hamlet reached out to Kydd; it seemed to belong to another world, one without blood and war, without the unthinkable threat of a fleet mutiny. His mind shied at the very notion—could it be, perhaps, just one of those endless wartime rumors?

  They tramped up the road beside the river toward a remarkably pretty humped bridge, set among a profusion of oaks and chestnut and dappled with sunlight. On the left were some well-kept and dignified mansions; he glimpsed the name “Corinthia” on one and wondered who could have had the fortune to live there in such a place of peace and beauty.

  They reached the London Inn on the other side of the dusty Plymouth turnpike; a smithy was already in industrious activity beside it, and ostlers readied horses in the post stables.

  “Mr. Kydd, I’d be obliged should you wait for me here,” Binney said, his tone low and serious. “If I do not return before evening, you are to return to Achilles and tell the captain.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Kydd acknowledged. Without his naval officer’s uniform Binney looked absurdly young for such a risky enterprise and all traces of his earlier animation were now gone. They remained standing awkwardly together under the gaudy inn sign, the occasional passerby curious at the presence of such a pair so out of keeping with Ivybridge.

  The coach finally came wheeling down the turnpike, and stopped with a brave crashing of hooves and jingling of harness; snorting, sweaty horses were led out of their traces and fresh ones backed in, the horsey smell pungent in Kydd’s nostrils.

  Binney climbed inside the coach, his grave face gazing out of the window. With bellows from the driver, the whip was laid on and the coach jerked into motion. Kydd had an urge to wave, but at the last instant made a sketchy naval salute. The coach clattered over the bridge and was gone.

  Kydd stood irresolute. It was hard to remain idle while others faced perils—it was not the navy way. He let the morning sun warm him, then sat on the bench outside the inn and felt the tensions seep away as he listened, with eyes closed, to the cheep and trill of country birds, the rustling of breezes in the hayfield close by, myriad imperceptible rustic sounds.

  His thoughts tumbled along: only hours before he had been at sea, now in longed-for England—but in such circumstances! Where was Renzi? Should he do something? Restless, he opened his eyes and got to his feet. It was getting toward noon and he was hungry. Perhaps he should take a meal.

  In the dark interior of the inn, all glinting brass and pewter, there was only one other, reading a newspaper in the corner. Kydd left him to it and settled in a high-backed bench, relishing the rich sickliness of ale on sawdust.

  “Bliddy blackguards!”

  As there was no one else in the room, Kydd leaned around. “I beg y’r pardon?” he asked mildly.

  “Thikky mut’neers, o’ course,” the red-faced man said, shaking the newspaper for emphasis. His appearance suggested landed folk. Kydd caught the “mutineers” through the round Devon accent and tensed. There was now no question of rumor, it was actuality. “They’m maakin’ fresh demands, tiz maize.”

  “Demands?”

  “Eys zertainly, where’ve ’ee bin th’ last couple o’ weeks?” the man asked suspiciously.

  “Out o’ the country,” Kydd said quickly. “C’n I take a quick look, friend?”

  The man paused, then passed the paper across. “Leave it yee when you be vanished, I’ll zee ’ee dreckly avter.”

  Kydd snatched up the paper, the Times of London. The front page was all advertisements—“A patent Oeconomic machine …” and “Marylebone Cricket Club, Anniversary Dinner …” Impatiently he turned the page. He wanted to see with his own eyes words that would tell him the navy was in revolution. “… the Jacobin papers have turned all their speculations … to the meeting at Portsmouth …” “… notwithstanding all the idle and ignorant reports detailed in the Morning Papers of the day of the discontents at Portsmouth having
been rapidly adjusted, we are sorry to say that no such good news has been received …” Kydd could hardly believe his eyes. “… the conduct of the seamen … is reprehensible in the extreme …” “… Is any man sanguine as to think that Mr. Fox could retrieve the general anarchy that threatens us?”

  He stared at the report. This was worse than he had feared, almost beyond credibility. Kydd sat back in dismay A farmer entered, looking in Kydd’s direction with a friendly grin, but Kydd could not talk: he turned his back on the man and read on. “… correspondence between the Board of Admiralty and Deputation of Seamen …” The Admiralty reduced to treating with mutineers—it was unbelievable.

  He rose, feeling an urgent need to get outside into the bright sunlight. He found the bench, all thoughts of a meal dispelled, and read the report again. There was a deal of breathless comment on the audacity of the sailors, their conduct and a sinister “The success of the enemy in corrupting our brave Tars is truly formidable. What have we to expect, if we are not true to ourselves at this dreadful moment, when we are betrayed on every side?”

  He turned to the next page. It was in tiny print, and began: “The Petition, or rather Remonstrance, of the sailors of Lord BRlDPORT’S fleet, is now before the Public, and we most sincerely wish that it was not our duty to publish it.” Underneath was column after column of the verbatim demands of the mutineers, apparently printed under duress by the Times. Reluctantly, he continued to read.

  THE HUMBLE PETITION—of the SEAMEN and MARINES on Board His Majesty’s Ships, in Behalf of Themselves. Humbly sheweth—That the Petitioners, relying on the candor and justice of your Honorable House, make bold to lay their grievances before you, hoping, that when you reflect on them, you will please to give redress, as far as your wisdom will deem necessary….

  Kydd scanned ahead. A central issue emerged: a number of grievances specified not as a demand but a careful “laying before their Lordships with a hope of redress.”