Slowly he folded the newspaper. This was no sudden rising of seamen, this must be organized, deadly. Who or what was at the bottom of it all?
“Sir, it is as we feared. Plymouth is now in the hands of the mutineers, and the ships have gone over, every one.” Binney was tired and distracted, but respectful before his captain, Kydd at his side. He had returned close-mouthed and abrupt, leaving Poynter and the seaman wondering.
“Mr. Binney, did you make your duty to the admiral’s office?” Dwyer snapped. It was a crucial matter for him. His own conduct in the immediate future could well be examined later, but if there were orders …
“I was unable, sir, but I do have this.” Binney fumbled inside his coat and handed over a document.
Dwyer took it quickly. “Ah, this is the admiral’s seal. Well done, Mr. Binney.” He tore open the paper and scanned the few words in haste. “Thank God—here we have conclusive proof and assurance that the North Sea fleet and the Nore did not join the mutiny, and these are our orders to proceed there with all dispatch.”
Achilles leaned to the wind and, through a strangely deserted Channel, beat eastward. The Start, Portland Race and a distant Isle of Wight passed abeam, all treasured sights for a deep-sea mariner inward bound; Beachy Head loomed up, and past it was the anchorage of the Downs, protected to seaward by the Goodwin Sands. Home—after such adventures as most could only dream of. At the North Foreland they tacked about and ran into the estuary of the Thames, the sea highway to London, the keys to the kingdom.
And the Nore. Soon after the low-lying marshy island of Sheppey spread across their course they came upon the unmistakable sight of a forest of black masts: the fleet anchorage of the Great Nore.
Kydd saw them—it was not the first time for it was here those years ago, at the outset of the war, that he had first stepped on the deck of a man-o’-war. With a stab, he remembered that he had been a pressed man then, miserable, homesick and bitter, but now … A reluctant smile acknowledged the thought that he had indeed returned home—to his original starting point.
But the Nore was not a home to one of England’s great battle fleets, it was a base for shelter, storing and repair, and an assembling point for the Baltic convoys, a working-up area for new vessels from the Chatham and Deptford shipyards and a receiving and exchange point for the continuous flow of unfortunates from the press-gang tenders and quota transports. It was a place of coming and going, of transience and waiting.
In winter a northerly could bring a biting, raw wind for weeks on end, the only solace ashore the drab, isolated garrison town of Sheerness, a bleak place at the northerly tip of Sheppey The town’s sole reason for existence was the dockyard and garrison fort. The rest of the island was a place of marshes, decaying cliffs and scattered sheep pasture, an effective quarantine from England proper.
Taking no chances, Achilles passed down the line of ships at anchor. No red flags, no mutinous cheering, only the grave naval courtesies of a ship rejoining the fleet. Under dull skies the 64 found her berth and the great bower anchors tumbled into the muddy gray where the Thames met the North Sea, and she composed herself for rest.
CHAPTER 6
This is Mr. Evan Nepean, my lord. He will furnish you with as complete an account as you’d wish and, dare I say it, more succinct in the particulars.” As a politician and not a seaman, the First Lord of the Admiralty was happy to turn over an explanation of the calamitous events at Spithead to the secretary; he knew the sea cant of the sailors in mutiny and would field the more delicate matters capably.
“Very well, then,” said Lord Stanhope, easing himself wearily into one of the carved seats around the board table. “Not the details, if you please, just the salient facts.” Stanhope had made an urgent return from Sweden at the news of the outbreak and was plainly exhausted. But his discreet journeyings abroad had earned him the ear of William Pitt, and it would be folly to underestimate his power.
Nepean moved around the table the better to access the hanging maps above the fireplace. He pulled down one of Great Britain. “As you will appreciate, sir, our concentrations of force for the defense of the kingdom are the Channel fleet here at Portsmouth to be directed against the French in Brest, and at Plymouth we find our advanced squadron. At Yarmouth we have the North Sea fleet, which looks directly into the Netherlands and the Baltic, and near there we have the Nore anchorage and the dockyard at Sheerness to victual and maintain them.
“For some weeks prior to mid-April, discontent became apparent at Spithead, and on the fifteenth of April last this resulted in open mutiny; the seamen refused duty and the fleet was unable to proceed to sea. They are in such a state at this time, and unhappily have been joined in their mutiny by the Plymouth squadron.”
“Is the situation stable?”
“It appears so at the moment, my lord,” Nepean said carefully. “The mutinous seamen are keeping good order and discipline, and await a resolution. However, I am not sanguine this will continue—in an unfortunate excess of zeal, blood was shed and the seamen are affronted.”
Stanhope pondered. “So as we speak, in essence, the approaches to these islands are entirely defenseless.”
“The men talk of sailing to meet the French if they make a sally, my lord, and please note that—praise be—the Nore and North Sea squadron are left to us, they did not mutiny.”
“Pray, why do they persist in their mutiny?”
Nepean shot a glance at Earl Spencer—his was the responsibility for some kind of resolution—but the First Lord continued to regard him gravely, so he continued: “My lord, they have a number of grievances which they demand find redress before they’ll consent to any kind of return to duty.”
“And these are?”
“The level of wages, of course, provisions served at short weight, no vegetables in port, that kind of thing.”
Stanhope looked up with a cynical smile. “And?”
“Er, liberty in port and some oversight with the sick and wounded—and your lordship will no doubt recall that a couple of years ago the army were rewarded with an increase.”
Frowning, Stanhope turned to Spencer. “It seems little enough. Can we not …”
“With the government’s position the weaker for Lord Moira’s unfortunate interference, any attempt on revenues will upset a delicate situation—we have suspended gold payments at the Bank of England, we are in dire need of every penny to buy off the Austrians, our last ally in all of Europe. Need I go further?”
“Our entire standing in foreign chancelleries is threatened, sir. Do you propose to allow the situation to continue indefinitely?”
“No, my lord,” Spencer said heavily. “We have compounded with the mutinous rascals for a substantial improvement in their pay, we have even secured a free pardon for this whole parcel of traitors, but still they will not yield.” He wiped his forehead wearily. “They will not listen to Parliament, sir.”
Nepean broke in: “This is true, sir,” he said smoothly, “but we have secured the services of Earl Howe to intercede for us with the sailors. He is to coach to Portsmouth shortly, with plenary powers.”
“Earl Howe?”
“Whom the sailors call ‘Black Dick.’ He led them to victory in the action of the Glorious First of June, and they trust him like a father.” A wintry smile appeared. “It is our last resource. If he does not succeed …”
Kydd stood in the foretop as one of the last rituals of the transition from live sea creature to one tethered and submissive was enacted. The sails were furled into a pristine harbor stow, the bunt taken over the yard into a graceful “pig’s ear” and plaited bunt gaskets passed to his satisfaction.
He found himself looking up to take in the somber brown cliffs and bleak seacoast of Sheppey over the mile or so of scurrying drab sea. Emotions of times past returned sharp and poignant. A great deal had happened since he had left home …
“Clap on more sail, if y’ please, Mr. Cantlie!” Kydd threw at the inboard seaman on the footro
pes. The sailor stared up resentfully but did as he was told. “Lay in,” Kydd ordered, when the furling was complete. The men came in off the yard and assembled in the foretop, but as they did so the piercing wail of calls from the boatswain’s mates cut through. “Haaaands to muster! Clear lower deck—all hands lay aft!”
It appeared that Captain Dwyer would address his ship’s company before going ashore to pay his respects to the admiral. It was unusual—minds would be set on the joyous sprees to be had ashore, and a bracing talk more properly belonged to an outward-bound voyage.
Kydd took up his position, facing inward midway between the officers aft on the poop deck and the men crowding the main-deck forward, feet astride in an uncompromising brace.
“Still!” the master-at-arms roared. Muttering among the mass of men died away quickly, and the captain stepped forward to the poop-deck rail. “Men of the Achilles!” he began, then paused, surveying them grimly. The last shuffling of feet subsided. Something was in the wind. “I have to tell you now the gravest news, which affects us all. I am talking about nothing less than the very safety of this kingdom and the survival of these islands.”
He had total attention; some sailors had jumped into the lower rigging to hear him better. “It is a stroke of war that the enemy have been able to achieve by cunning, treachery, and inciting our honest tars to treason.”
Puzzled looks were exchanged. This was nothing like a hearty call to arms.
Dwyer glanced at the stony-faced marine lieutenant, then continued: “The news I will give may well come from others who do not have the true facts, which is why I am telling you now, so you have no reason to believe them.”
Suspicious looks appeared, eyes narrowed.
“It is my sad duty to have to inform you that your fellow seamen of the Channel fleet at Spithead have mutinied.” The suspicion turned to shock. “In fact, the mutineers, led we believe by French agents, have joined together to hold Old England to ransom with a list of impossible demands that they have had the gall to inflict on Parliament this past week.”
An appalled silence was followed by a rising hubbub. “Silence!” screamed the master-at-arms. His voice cracked with tension, and the marines fingered their muskets. The noise lessened, but did not fade entirely.
“The fate of these blackguardly rogues you may guess. England will not forgive easily those who have so perfidiously betrayed their mother country, be assured.” His voice rose strongly. “But do not you be gulled by free-talking scoundrels into thoughtless acts of treason, crimes for which only a halter at the yardarm is the answer. Your duty is plain before you—to your ship and His Majesty, no other!
“Mr. Hawley,” he called to the first lieutenant. “Three cheers for His Majesty!”
Hawley took off his hat and called loudly, “M’ lads, an huzzah for King George: hip, hip …”
The cheers were distracted and uncertain, however, and Dwyer’s face creased into a frown. “Three more for our ship!” he ordered. These cheers were somewhat louder, but to Kydd’s ears they sounded mechanical and lacking in spirit. The captain waited for them to die, then continued evenly, “I’m going ashore now. Mr. Hawley will prepare your liberty tickets while we see about your pay. Carry on, please.”
Achilles’s ship’s company went to their noon grog in a ferment of anticipation. The talk of pay was promises only, but liberty ashore in an English port, however barren, after so long in foreign parts would be sweet indeed. The more thoughtful reflected on the danger to the realm of the British fleet in a state of insurrection. Individual ships had mutinied before, the most prominent the Bounty less than ten years earlier, but this was a planned wholesale rising—who or what could be behind it?
At six bells the captain went ashore with all ceremony to make his number with the port admiral, Vice Admiral Buckner, and the ship settled to harbor routine. In the main this consisted of a controlled bedlam, a mix of those happy souls making ready to step ashore to taste the dubious delights of Sheerness and others whose duties kept them aboard.
The arrival of a big ship was always a gratifying sight to those shoreside, and it was not long before Achilles became the focus of a host of small craft coming around Garrison Point. Kydd sighed. He knew what was coming and, as mate-of-the-watch to Lieutenant Binney he would have most to do with it. Binney was on call below. Alone on the quarterdeck, Kydd watched as the hordes converged. He had made all the dispositions he could—boarding nettings were rigged below the line of the gunports, as much to deter desertion as unwanted visitors; gear had been triced up to allow more deck space, the guns run out to broaden the width of gun-decks; and canvas screens rigged on the lower deck.
“Here they come, the saucy cuntkins!” piped a midshipman in glee.
“Clap a stopper on it, young ’un!” Kydd growled. “M’ duty to Mr. Binney, an’ they’ll be alongside presently.”
Binney came up just as the first boats arrived at the side steps. “One at a time, and they’re to be searched,” he said, in a bored tone. Men lined the side, chuckling at their prospects. Kydd motioned at random to one of the boats. It responded with alacrity and the woman at the oars made a dextrous alongside. She hoisted a basket of goods to her head and, grabbing the manrope, easily mounted the side, leaving a companion to lie off on her oars. “An’ the best o’ the day ter yez.” She bobbed familiarly at the lieutenant. Chubby, and of invincible cheeriness, she submitted to the cursory search with practiced ease, then pushed through the gathering sailors to set up position forward for her hot breads, pies and oranges. Others came aboard, some with trinkets, several with ingenious portable workbenches for tailoring, cobbling and leatherwork, and still more with cashboxes ready to take a seaman’s pay ticket and change it—at ruinous discount—into hard cash.
More crowded aboard. The master-at-arms and ship’s corporals were hard put to keep up with the stream. The hubbub grew, and Kydd stepped back for the sanctity of the quarterdeck just as the master-at-arms thrust an arm under a fat woman’s dress.
“That f’r yer cat’s piss, m’ lovely!” he snarled triumphantly. The squeal of indignation faded into the embarrassment of discovery as a knife cut into a concealed bladder and cheap gin flooded into the scuppers.
“Heave her gear overside,” Binney ordered, and to mingled shouts of protest and derision her tray of gewgaws sailed into the sea. The gin was destined for sale below decks and Kydd suspected from the growing merriment that other sources had already found their way there.
“Sweethearts ’n’ wives, sir?” Kydd asked Binney.
“Cap’n’s orders are very clear,” Binney replied, with a frown. “Wives only, no pockey jades to corrupt our brave tars.” The master-at-arms raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Binney turned and left the deck to Kydd. The officers would now retreat to their wardroom and cabin spaces, and in time-honored fashion the ship would be turned over to the men and their wives of the day.
“They shows their lines,” ordered Kydd. There would be some genuine wives; the rest would carry unimpeachable marriage lines, obtainable for a small fee ashore. But this fiction served to demonstrate to an increasingly prim public ashore that HMS Achilles was taking its responsibility seriously concerning the traffic in women’s bodies.
He walked to the side and beckoned the waiting outer circle of watermen’s boats. They bent to their oars with a will, the bulwarks lined with sailors lewdly urging them on. It was as much to reduce numbers aboard as anything, but as practical senior of the watch he had the dubious honor of selecting those allowed to entertain Achilles men. The invading crowd swarmed aboard, modesty cast aside as the women clambered over the bulwarks. It was hard on the watermen. Those whose passengers were rejected must return them ashore, a good mile or more and not a sixpence in it for their trouble.
The lucky ones pranced about on the pristine decks. A fiddle started on the foredeck and an impromptu dance began about the foremast. Feminine laughter tinkled, roars of ribaldry surged—the stern man-o’-war line
s of Achilles melted into a comfortable acquiescence at the invasion. Real wives were easy to spot. Often with awed children, they bore lovingly prepared bundles and a look of utter disdain, and while they crossed the bulwarks as expertly as their rivals, they were generally swept up in a big hug by a waiting seaman. Some were told “Forrard on the gundeck, m’ dear” from a gruff master-at-arms. Their spouses being on duty there they would find a space between a pair of cannons, made suitably private with a canvas screen, the declared territory of a married couple.
It was nearly six bells; when eight sounded and the evening drew in, Cockburn would relieve Kydd, and he could retreat to the gun-room. The midshipman’s berth was, however, only too near and it would be a noisy night.
Cockburn came on deck early. Harbor watches were a trial for him, the necessary relaxation of discipline and boisterous behavior of the seamen hard on his straitlaced Scottish soul.
“What cheer, Tarn? Need t’ step ashore? Cap’n wants t’ get a demand on the dockyard delivered b’ hand f’r a new wash-deck pump. Ship’s business, o’ course, gets you off the ship Pr an hour.”
“In Sheerness?” Cockburn retorted scornfully Kydd was looking forward to getting ashore and seeing something of the local color, but Cockburn remained glum. “Join me in a turn around below-decks afore I hand over the watch,” he said to the young man, trying to draw him out of himself. “Younker, stand by on the quarterdeck,” he threw at the bored duty midshipman. The rest of the watch were together around the mizzenmast swapping yarns, a token number compared to the full half of the ship’s company closed up at sea.
They strode off forward, along the gangways each side of the boat space. “Clear ’em off forrard,” Kydd said, to a duty petty officer following, who duly noted in his notebook that the wizened crone and the young child selling cheap jewelry on a frayed velvet cloth should be moved forward to clear the gangways. The foredeck was alive with cheerful noise. Traders, expert in wheedling, had set out their portable tables and were reluctantly parting with gimcrack brass telescopes, scarlet neckcloths, clay pipes and other knickknacks that were five times their price ashore.
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