Mutiny

by Julian Stockwin

  “Understood, Mr. Kydd,” said Farnall, with a slight smile.

  Kydd looked around and glowered; the group drifted apart and left under his glare, but Boddy remained, fiddling with a rope’s end.

  “Will?” Kydd would trust his life with someone like Boddy. He was incapable of deceit or trickery and was the best hand on a sail with a palm and needle, the sailmaker included.

  “Tom, yer knows what’s in th’ wind, don’ need me ter tell yez.”

  Kydd didn’t speak for a space, then he said, “I c’n guess. There’s those who’re stirrin’ up mischief f’r their own reasons, an’ a lot o’ good men are goin’ to the yardarm ’cos of them.”

  Boddy let the rope drop. “Farnall, he admires on Wilkes—yer dad probably told yer, “Wilkes ’n’ Liberty!” an’ all that.”

  “I don’t hold wi’ politics at sea,” Kydd said firmly. “An’ don’t I recollect Wilkes is agin the Frenchy revolution?”

  “Aye, that may be so,” Boddy said uncomfortably, “but Farnall, he’s askin’ some questions I’m vexed ter answer.”

  “Will, ye shouldn’t be tellin’ me this,” Kydd muttered.

  Boddy looked up earnestly. “Like we sent in petitions ’n’ letters an’ that—how many, yer can’t count—so th’ Admiralty must know what it’s like. They’ve got ter! So if nothin’ happens, what does it mean?”

  He paused, waiting for Kydd to respond. When he didn’t, Boddy said, “There’s only one answer, Tom.” He took a deep breath. “They don’t care! We’re away out of it at sea, why do they haveta care?”

  “Will, you’re telling me that ye’re going t’ trouble th’ Lords o’ the Admiralty on account of a piece o’ reasty meat, Nipcheese gives y’ short measure—”

  “Tom, ye knows it’s worse’n that. When I was a lad, first went ter sea, it were better’n now. So I asks ye, how much longer do we have ter take it—how long, mate?”

  “Will, y’re talkin’ wry, I c’n see that—”

  “Spithead, they’re doin’ the right thing as I sees it. No fightin’, no disrespeck, just quiet-like, askin’ their country ter play square with ’em, tryin’—”

  “Hold y’r tongue!” Kydd said harshly.

  Boddy stopped, but gazed at him steadily, and continued softly, “Some says as it could be soon when a man has t’ find it in himself ter stand tall f’r what’s right. How’s about you, Mr. Kydd?”

  Kydd felt his control slipping. Boddy knew that he had over-stepped—but was it deliberate, an attempt to discover his sympathies, mark him for elimination in a general uprising, or was it a friend and shipmate trying to share his turmoil?

  Kydd turned away. In what he had said Boddy was guilty of incitement to mutiny; if Kydd did not witness against him he was just as guilty. But he could not—and realized that a milestone had been passed.

  He did not sleep well: as an eight-year-old he had been badly shaken when his mother had returned from a London convulsed by mob rioting, Lord Gordon’s ill-advised protest lurching out of control. She had been in a state of near panic at the breakdown of authority, the drunken rampages and casual violence. Her terror had planted a primordial fear in Kydd of the dissolution of order, a reflexive hatred of revolutionaries, and in the darkness he had woken from terrifying dreams of chaos and his shipmates turned to ravening devils.

  Glad when morning came, he sat down to breakfast in the gunroom. The others ate in silence, the navy way, until Cockburn pushed back his plate and muttered, “I have a feeling in m’ bowels, Tom.”

  “Oh?” Kydd answered cautiously. This was not like Cockburn at all.

  “Last night there was no play with the shot-rolling. It was still, too quiet by half. Have you heard anything from your people?”

  “I heard ’em talkin’ but nothin’ I c’n put my finger on,” he lied.

  “All it needs is some hothead.” Cockburn stared morosely at the mess table.

  Kydd’s dream still cast a spell and he was claustrophobic. “Going topsides,” he said, but as he got to his feet, the gunroom servant passed a message across. There was no mistaking the bold hand and original spelling, and a smile broke through. This had obviously been brought aboard by a returning libertyman.

  “The sweet Dulcinea calls?” Cockburn asked dryly. It was no secret in the gunroom that Kydd’s dark good looks were an unfailing attraction to females.

  He broke the wafer.

  It wood greeve me if we are not to be frends any moor and I wood take it kindly in yuo if you could come visit for tea with me.

  Yoor devoted

  Kitty

  His day brightened; he could probably contrive another visit that afternoon—after his experience in an Antiguan dockyard he was good at cozening in the right quarters. Stepping lightly, he arrived on deck; it was a clear dawn, promising reliable weather for the loosing and drying of the headsails.

  The duty watch of the hands appeared; the afterguard part-of-ship rigged the wash-deck hose and the morning routine started. Kydd could pace quietly one side of the quarterdeck until the petty officer was satisfied with clean decks and then he could collect the hands.

  He tried to catch a glimpse of their temper. He knew all the signs—the vicious movements of frustration, the languid motions of uncaring indolence—but today was different. There was a studied blankness in what they were doing; they worked steadily, methodically, with little of the back chat usual in a tedious job. It was unsettling. His musing was interrupted by the approach of a duty midshipman. “Mr. Kydd, ol’ Heavie Hawley wants to see you now.”

  Kydd’s heart gave a jump. With the captain ashore, the first lieutenant was in command, and for some reason wanted his presence immediately. He stalled: “An’ I don’t understan’ y’r message, y’ swab—say again.”

  “First l’tenant asks that you attend him in his cabin, should you be at liberty to do so at this time.”

  “I shall be happy t’ attend shortly,” Kydd replied guardedly, and the reefer scuttled off.

  It could be anything, but with increasing apprehension he remembered his talk with Boddy. If anyone had overheard, or had seen that it had not been followed by instant action to take the matter aft, he was in serious trouble. Removing his worn round hat, he hurried down to the wardroom and the officers’ cabins. The polished dark red of the first lieutenant’s cabin door looked ominous. He knocked.

  “Come in.” Hawley’s aristocratic tones were uncompromising, whomever he addressed. He was at his desk, writing. He looked up, then carefully replaced his quill in the holder and swiveled around. “Ah, Mr. Kydd.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve asked you here on a matter of some seriousness.”

  “Er, aye, sir.”

  “Some in the service would regard it more lightly than I, but I would not have it in question, sir, other than that I would rather put my duty, as asked of me, ahead of anything I hold dear in this world. Is that clear?”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  He picked up a paper. “This is duty! It is from the King himself.” He paused as if struck by sudden doubt, then recovered. “Shall I read it to you?”

  “If y’ please, sir.” It was probably his commission: Kydd had never seen an officers commission, the instrument that made them, under the King’s Majesty, of almost sacred power aboard a man-o’-war. He had heard that it contained the most aweful strictures regarding allegiance and duty, and he was probably going to read them to Kydd before striking his blow.

  “Very well.” His lips moved soundlessly as he scanned down to the right spot:

  “The Queen’s House, the 10th day of May, 1797.

  “The Earl of Spencer, to avoid any delay in my waiting …’ er, and so forth ‘… that a fitting reception for the newly wed Princess Royal and His Serene Highness the Prince of Württemburg be made ready preparatory to their embarkation in San Fiorenzo for their honeymoon. Also attending will be Colonel Gwynn, Lord Cathcart and the Clerk of the Green Cloth and two others. I desire orders be given …’ more detail ‘…
by return rider.’

  “There! What did you think of that? From His Majesty, Mr. Kydd.”

  “I—er, I don’ know what t’ think, sir. Er, the honor!”

  Clearly pleased with the effect, Hawley unbent a little. “Means we are required to mount an assembly of sorts for the Princess Royal and party prior to their boarding San Fiorenzo. I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Binney, who will be involved in the entertainments, and Mr. Eastman will be looking into the refreshments. Of course, Captain Dwyer will have returned from the court-martial by then.”

  Fighting the tide of relief, Kydd tried to make sense of it. To be meeting royalty was not to be taken calmly, and it would be something to bring up casually at mess for years to come. “Sir, what—”

  “In the nature of these things, it is possible that the party may be delayed or San Fiorenzo is obliged to take an earlier tide, in which case the whole occasion will have to be abandoned.”

  “What is my duty, if y’ please?”

  “Ah, yes. You will understand that a royal retinue is accustomed to an order of civilized conduct above that normally to be found in a ship of war. Your, er, origins make you uniquely qualified for this duty.”

  “Sir?”

  “You will insure that the ship’s company as far as possible is kept out of sight, away from the gaze of this party, that those unavoidably on duty are strictly enjoined to abjure curses, froward behavior and unseemly displays, and that silence is kept below. You may employ any expression of discipline you see fit.”

  Despite his relief, Kydd felt a dull resentment. What were his men, that they must be herded away from the gaze of others, they with whom he had shared so many dangers by sea and malice of the enemy? “Aye-aye, sir,” he said softly.

  “So we—” Hawley broke off with a frown. From the deck above sounded the thump of many feet, ending suddenly, just as if the cry of “all hands on deck” had sounded.

  He stared at Kydd. “Did you—” Distantly there came the unmistakable clamor of cheers, a crescendo of sound that echoed, then was taken up and multiplied from all around them.

  “Good heavens! You don’t suppose—” Seizing his cocked hat, Hawley strode out on deck, closely followed by Kydd. It seemed the entire ship’s company of Achilles was cheering in the lower rigging, a deafening noise.

  Around the anchorage in the other ships it was the same. In the flagship Sandwich the rigging was black with frantically waving seamen, the urgent tan-tara of a trumpet sounding above the disorder, the crack of a signal gun on her fo’c’sle adding point to the moment.

  “You, sir,” Hawley shouted, at a bemused midshipman. “What the devil is going on?”

  Before he could answer, a crowd of seamen moved purposefully toward him on the quarterdeck, ignoring the others in the shrouds cheering hoarsely. Kydd’s stomach tightened. He knew what was afoot.

  They didn’t hesitate. Kydd saw Farnall conspicuously in front, Boddy and Jewell, some of his own forward gun crews, others, all with the same expression of grim resolution. They were not armed: they didn’t need to be.

  “Sir,” said Eli Coxall gravely to the first lieutenant. “I’ll trouble ye for the keys t’ the magazine.”

  Shocked, Hawley stared at him. The cheering in the rigging stopped, and men dropped to the deck, coming aft to watch. Kydd stood paralyzed: a mutiny was now taking place.

  “Now, sir, if you please!” Farnall’s voice held a ring of authority, a quota man turned mutineer, and it goaded Kydd into anger. He clenched his fists and pushed toward him. “Do ye know what ye’ve done, man?” he blazed. “All y’r shipmates, headin’ for a yardarm—”

  The big bulk of Nelms, a seaman Kydd knew more for his strength than judgment, shoved beside Farnall. “Now, yer can’t talk ter Mr. Farnall like that, Mr. Kydd.”

  Kydd sensed the presence of others behind him, and looked unbelieving at Coxall, Boddy and others he knew. They stared back at him gravely.

  “This is open mutiny, you men,” Hawley began nervously, “but should you return to your duty, then—”

  “We have charge o’ the ship,” Coxall said firmly. It was a well-organized coup that was all but over.

  Binney’s voice came from behind. “Sir, do you—”

  Hawley recovered. “No, Mr. Binney, I do not believe hasty actions will answer. These scoundrels are out of their wits at the moment, but they do have the ship.” He turned to Coxall. “Very well. You shall have the keys. What is it you plan to do with the vessel? Turn it over to the French?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” Only Farnall showed an expression of triumph; Coxall’s voice continued level and controlled. “We’re with our brethren in Spithead, sir, in their just actions. I’d be obliged were ye to conform t’ our directions.”

  Kydd held his breath. It was as if the heavens had collapsed on them all, and he dreaded what was to come.

  “And these are? Hawley hissed.

  “Well, sir, we has the good conduct o’ the fleet well at heart, so if we gets y’r word you’ll not move against us, why, y’ has the freedom o’ the ship, you an’ y’ officers. We’re not goin’ t’ sail, we’re stayin’ at moorin’s till we’ve bin a-righted.” Kydd was struck by Coxall’s dignity in the appalling danger he stood in: he was now undeniably marked out, in public, as a ringleader.

  “My word?”

  “Aye, sir, the word of a king’s officer.”

  Hawley was clearly troubled. It was deadly certain that the gravest consequences would follow, whatever happened, and his every act—or omission—would be mercilessly scrutinized. What was not at question was that if word was given, it would be kept.

  The crowd grew quiet, all eyes on the first lieutenant.

  “I, er, give my word.”

  There was a rustle of feeling, muttered words and feet shuffling.

  “Thank ye, sir,” Coxall said. “Then ye also have the word o’ the delegates at the Nore that y’ shan’t be touched.” Hawley began to speak, but Coxall cut him off. “Sir, the business o’ the ship goes on, but we do not stir one inch t’ sea.”

  “Very well.” Hawley had little choice—in barely three minutes he had gone from command of a ship-of-the-line to an irrelevancy.

  A scuffle of movement and raised voices came from the fore-hatchway. A knot of men appeared, propelling the boatswain aft, his hands roughly tied.

  “We gives ’im medicine as ’ll cure his gripin’!” crowed Cantlie, dancing from foot to foot in front of the detested Welby. “Go reeve a yard rope, mates!”

  From the main hatch the boatswain jerked into view, hatless and with blood trickling from his nose, a jeering crowd of seamen frog-marching him aft. “Here’s one t’ do a little dance fer us!”

  It was met by a willing roar, but Coxall cut in forcefully. “Hold hard, y’ clinkin’ fools! Remember, we got rules, we worked it out.”

  “Rules be buggered!” an older fo’c’sle hand slurred. “I gotta argyment wi’ first luff needs settlin’ now!” Hawley, pale-faced, tensed.

  Coxall spoke quietly, over his shoulder: “Podger?” Nelms’s beefy arm caught the troublemaker across the face, throwing him to the deck. “I said, mates, we got rules,” Coxall said heavily. He turned to Boddy. “Will, these two are t’ be turned out o’ the ship now. C’n yer clear away the larb’d cutter?”

  A seaman with drawn cutlass came on deck and reported to him. It seemed that the marines were powerless, their arms under control and all resistance impossible.

  Coxall raised his voice to a practiced roar and addressed the confused and silent mass of men. “Committee meets in the st’b’d bay now. Anyone wants t’ lay a complaint agin an officer c’n do it there.” He glanced around briefly, then led his party out of sight below.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mutiny! A word to chill the bowels. Achilles was now in the hands of mutineers, every one of whom would probably swing for it, condemned by their own actions. Kydd paced cautiously; men gave way to him as a master’s mate just as they had before. There we
re sailors in the waist at work clearing the waterways at the ship’s side, others sat on the main hatch, picking oakum. Forward a group was seeing to the loosing and drying of headsails. A few stood about forlornly, confused, rudderless.

  It was hardly credible: here was a great ship in open insurrection and shipboard routines went on largely as they did every day. Binney paced by on the opposite side of the deck; seamen touched their hats and continued, neither abashed nor aggressive.

  Impulsively, Kydd clattered down the hatchway to the main deck and made his way to the ship’s bay, the clear area in the bluff bow forward of the riding bitts. There was a canvas screen rigged across, with one corner laced up, a seaman wearing a cutlass at ease there, on watch. “I have a question f’r the delegates,” Kydd told the man.

  He smiled briefly. “Aye, an’ I’m sure ye have,” he said, and peered inside. He straightened and held back the corner flap. “Ask yer questions, then,” he said, looking directly at Kydd.

  Farnall sat at a table, Boddy on his right. Others were on benches and sea chests, about a dozen in all. They were discussing something in low, urgent tones, while Farnall shuffled a clutch of papers. Boddy wore a frown and looked uneasy.

  “What cheer, Tom?” This came from Jewell, who was with others to the side. Boddy looked up and nodded. Others stopped their talk and looked at him.

  “Nunky, Will,” Kydd acknowledged.

  “And to what do we owe this honor?” Farnall asked.

  Kydd folded his arms. “I came t’ see if there’s anyone c’n explain t’ me this ragabash caper.”

  There were growls from some, but one called “Tell ’im, Mr. Farnall.”

  Farnall rose to his feet. Gripping the lapels of his waistcoat he turned to Kydd, but before he could speak, Kydd interrupted forcefully: “No, I want t’ hear it from a reg’lar-built sailorman, not a land-toggie who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow about sailoring.”